I was sitting on my bed when I first received news. This is the kind of news no one wants to receive ever. There was a gentle knock on my door. You could hear the quiet breathing from behind the door, trying to gain composure, trying to look brave and seem okay. I never met him personally. I never got to be wrapped around in his arms, I never got to know what it would feel like to sit on his lap during the holidays. But I knew his voice, I knew his face and all the stories in the words of my father. I knew that he wasn’t always the best, that he was harsh, that he was hurtful but I still wanted that chance. I see his face when I look at my father. I don’t see who he was but what he could have been. I may never know what it will feel like to have known him, to have heard the stories of my greats, about futbol and politics. All I know is that he gave me my father. And for that, I’ll always love him too.