This entry is dedicated to my dad and he will never read it. Sad thing.*
When I was 16 I had to write an essay in school about the person I admire the most. So I wrote about my dad. My dad is not famous, nor is he rich or talented. He is not a scientist or a professor. But he is the best man in my personal world even if he doesn’t know. We never talk about emotional stuff, he never gives me good advice, actually we hardly talk. When my dad was young he was a biker. Motorbikes were his lifestyle, his passion, his love. But this love became his doom. A few years before he met my mother, he had a terrible accident. He was actually supposed to be dead but somehow he was strong enough to survive. I know that he was in a coma and it was still not sure if he’d make it. But after 2 long months and 2 days he finally woke up. He had millions of traumas. He couldn’t move or speak. The doctors had to use skin of his thigh for surgery on his arm. They said he would never be able to walk again. It was so sad. My dad slowly became a healthy man - I mean he slowly learned how to speak again but at the beginning, my uncle even had to take him to the toilet and wipe his bottom. He was as helpless as a newborn baby. After a few months he said to himself: I won’t spend my life in a wheelchair. So he went to a rehabilitation centre where he fought for the strength of his legs. It took him 2 years to learn how to walk again. He still limps. His brain works slower, too. Well, after a few years of deep depression my dad met my mother. She was visiting her cousin in Germany, whose husband was one of my dad’s friends. They immediately fell for each other - he took her to an Italian restaurant in his red VW - my mom was so impressed because at this time normal people in the Philippines had no cars. They talked English and my mom told me that my dad had a terrible German accent. But he was gentle and sensitive, caring and funny so she couldn’t forget him back in the Philippines. And a...
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