Answer Me

If anyone tries to tell you that money will buy you happiness, they’re wrong.

It’s been one month and 27 days since we got the news, and it’s still hard for me to get out of bed in the morning. One month and 27 days that I've written down things to tell my father once he gets home from the war, only to remember that he won’t. The realization that I can’t ever see or talk to him again… that's the hardest pill to swallow.

That day keeps replaying in my head-little Stevie had just been put down for a nap, mom was reading on the couch, I was upstairs getting ready for a date with the boy from my physics class. We were taken off guard when the doorbell rang; we weren’t expecting company, and solicitors have learned to stay away from our neighborhood because we tend to not take so kindly to them. I heard the door opening downstairs and mom greeting someone. A man’s voice said some things I was too far away to hear. I heard a sob, then silence, and then another short, undecipherable conversation. After several more seconds, the door closed and I recognized mom’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

“What was-”

My words died out when I saw her face, stricken with tears. She looked at me, but her eyes were dull and unrecognizing.

“He’s gone.”

At first I didn’t understand what she meant, but then it hit me like a wave, suddenly crashing over and overwhelming me. I sank to the floor.

“D-dad?”

Mom didn’t say anything; her face was answer enough.

We were given $20,000, and we don’t want it-as if money could heal the searing hole in our hearts.

All I want is my dad back.

Before my dad left to go to war, he gave me a little black notebook and told me to write him letters. I would tell him about everything going on in my life, and he would answer as often as he could. I always looked forward to getting mail from him. One month and 27 days later, I have yet to touch that notebook again.

But now I find myself sitting in front of it, reliving the once sweet but now painful memories that it created and wishing more than anything that I could talk to him one last time. Breathing in deeply, I reach for the notebook.

Dad,

There’s so much I want to say to you…

There hasn’t been a day that has passed since you’ve been gone that I haven’t cried myself to sleep, wishing more than anything that you were here.

I wish… I wish that this wasn’t the way things turned out. I wish I could have gotten more time with you. I wish Stevie was old enough that he'll be able to remember a time when he had a father to keep him safe. I wish you got to see us grow up. I wish you never had to go to war…

I wish you were still alive.

It isn’t fair.

I miss you every day. I miss the arms that held me when I was a kid and crying because I fell and scraped my knee; I miss your overprotectiveness; I miss the warm, gentle smile that you had when you told me everything was going to be okay.

I’m not sure why I’m writing this. I guess part of me just hopes that it was all in my head, that you’re not actually gone, because I spent so long counting down the days until you could come home that now I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m still hoping that if I mailed this, you would answer me.

Answer me, dad. Please… answer me.

It's been one month and 27 days, and I would still choose my dad over $20,000 without a moment's hesitation.

If anyone tries to tell you that money will buy you happiness, they’re wrong.