I grew-up complete with the whims of mine instantly granted by my mother and father. I was the only child, which would justify my parents’ care for me, and mine to them. as I began to age, I was shielded from almost all the worldly hurt this lifetime could muster. I am aware of this, although dimly. I was closer to my mother than to my father, although I love them both, but I am more attached to my mother in a way words fail to explain. when I was 13, war broke out, and my father had to leave and enlist himself to the army. I was young – unadulterated of what was happening – all I could remember was the bold words uttered by my father after kissing my mother on the forehead, “im leaving on my own accord, if its not me and the other men, who’ll fight against those nazi bastards?” and then he forced to summon a cheeky grin upon his own lined face, “Molly, look at me” said my father as my mother choked back tears, “im sure everything will be alright. Donald told me two days ago that we’re on the winning side of this shit-hole.” after that, he straighten himself up walked slowly towards me and laid eyes upon me – our eyes met at that moment, brown against blue – and placed his right hand upon my straw-colored hair, gave it a ruffle to mess it up a bit, and then proceeded to leave the front door of our house, depart from my mother’s sincere affection , and forget everything about our home and everything it ever represented.