I loved Fridays as a kid, just as most did. The shared feeling of excitement as the weekend approaches and we’d get to sleep in and not worry about homework or assignments, seemed like a dream. One Friday changed everything, though. I recall being excited as we had presentations, I had worked so hard with the help of my dad, as tired as he was. It started off normally, I went into school with my huge poster board attached to the back of my huge bag as a 5th grader and went to my classroom. It was about halfway through the day when the call happened.

“Marisa, you’re going home” my teacher had said. A bit confused, but almost excited as I assumed there was something exciting at home, but boy was I wrong.

My cousin picked me up, we lived just three blocks from the school, so walking distance. The walk was calm, we made small talk and even joked, but I still hadn’t found out why I was going home so early.

Entering my darkened house, I see my dad distantly washing his face near the bathroom mirror. He walked toward me and asked me to sit on the couch. As he got closer, my nervousness increased as I saw the red, teary eyes.

“Mom” and “Heaven” were the only words I could make out.

The cold memory stuck with me as I was reminded of it every time the classroom phone rang, signaling a kid was being picked up. Surely it is usually the most innocent reasons; a doctor’s appointment or even just to spend the day with a parent, but for the life of me I can’t get that association out of my head, I can’t see someone leave class early without automatically assuming there is a family emergency. A death. It always takes a minute or so to calm my beating heart.

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