“Kenny, I know that making friends is hard. I know that school is hard. And I know that communicating with people is hard, too. But sometimes we need to do hard things,” my father told me one day after picking me up from school.

It was the first week of fourth grade, and I'd already been put into detention for starting a fight. It wasn't even really my fault– he'd been picking on me for not speaking well, so I’d talked to him in a way we'd both understand.

“But, I just… I…” I didn't have the words. I just what? I wanted people to like me? I wanted to be one of the smart kids who knew how to answer all the questions before they were asked?

“It's alright, bud. I understand,” he said as he turned into our driveway, “But I want you to think about something for me. And I want you to come talk to me about it when you've got your response, okay? You can take as much time as you want with this one.”

I nodded, and he continued, “Kenny, your mother and I love you very much. And if there's anything we can do to help you, we will. But sometimes we won't be able to do that. Sometimes nobody can come up with the answers to your questions except you. And that's alright, Kenny. You are more important than your problems. You are smarter than them, no matter what your grades say. And, no matter what, as long as you keep working towards your goals, you will outlast them. Understand?

I nodded.

My father repeated that phrase a lot. Whenever I came to him with an issue I felt there was no solution for, he'd remind me. “You are more important than your problems.”

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He wanted me to truly understand the phrase, and I spent a long time thinking over my response.

By the time I had my answer, he was gone.

“I'm sorry, Kenny.” My father placed his hand on my head and knelt down as my mom practically fell onto me and wrapped me in a hug. Both wore their green suits, the ones that were so cool but that they only wore when they were going to be away for a long time. “We have to go for a while, but we'll be back, alright?”

Even then, I didn't have the words to respond. I had my answer, but not the voice to speak it.

I don't know how I could solve any of these problems without you.

I went to live with my aunt for a time. That time grew longer and longer.

My grades went up. I started talking more. I didn't hit people anymore. But still, my parents didn't come home.

For a while, part of me wondered if they'd come back if I just did a bit better in school, or maybe made some friends. Aunt Linda eventually dissuaded me of that notion.

She told me that their death wasn't my fault, and that nothing I did could bring them back. Death was final, and nothing could change it.

I visited their grave from time to time, wishing that I could speak to them just one more time.

But the march of time was unrelenting.

I graduated high school, then started taking college online– paid for by the military, of course. Aunt Linda went on an extended charity trip to Africa, supposedly providing clean water to countries that had very little.

By the time my wish arrived, I didn't even recognize it for what it was until it was staring me in the face.