The Worst Christmas Ever It was December 1991, I just had my ninth birthday two months prior. My father was a cross-country truck driver. He had been one since before I was born. He loved being able to see new places and even visit places he had been before. He loved taking my brother, sister and me on “runs” with him, when we didn’t have school! In the few years, before his death my father had a Triple-Bypass and had a pacemaker put into his heart. This December 12th will make it nineteen years ago that the most important person was taken out of my life and gone forever. The last time I see or spoke to my dad was that Thanksgiving. It was two weeks before Christmas, when my father called our house in the middle of the night. We were in bed sleeping; we had six days until winter vacation. My mother answered the phone and he wanted to talk to us kids. My mother said, “No, they’re asleep and have school in the morning” he said “Okay, just tell them I miss them and love them very much! ” My mother said, “Okay Andy, I will. See you soon! ” About three hours later my mother got a phone call from my Grandma. My grandma said, “Brenda, a waitress at a truck stop found Andy’s truck blocking the driveway about three hours ago. She knocked on the door, when he didn’t answer she opened it. I’m sorry but it was too late. Brenda, he’s gone! ” My mother just started crying. She didn’t know what to say. My mother woke us up one by one and brought us into the living room. She said, “Dad called tonight, but it was too late. You guys were already in bed sleeping.
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