'My wedding day was indeed perfect. I realized that although my father was not there to give me away, he would have wanted to see me happy and, finally I was.'

It was the day that every girl dreams about and it should have been perfect. I seemed to have it all—the exquisite white gown with the seemingly never-ending train, the beautifully decorated church and, most importantly, the one with whom I knew I would spend the rest of my life. As my elder brother took my arm in his, I felt detached and I could not make sense of the overwhelming emptiness that had engulfed me. As we reached the top of the aisle, the priest asked, " Who gives this woman to be married?"

As my brother said " I do", I could not help but think that this response should have been from someone else. He did not have the right! That privilege belonged to someone else. It belonged to the person whom I admired and loved more than anyone else. The person who I thought I could never live without. The person who, exactly six years and one month to this date, had been taken from me. He was my father.

I remember our hour-long journeys to and from school every day. We would talk and laugh and even sing together. The last song we had sung was " Wind beneath my wings" and my sister and I told him that it was meant for him. How ironic that one month after his death my sister would have to sing that same song at her primary school graduation. She could not make it through the performance and it was at that point that I thought that God could not be more cruel if He tried. Through the entire experience, I blamed God. On the day of my father's funeral, I shed not a single tear; it was anger that consumed me. Since that dreadful morning when I heard my mother's painful sobs, I had repeatedly asked: " Why God? Why me? Why my father?" I had always told my father that I did not want to live without him; that when he died, I would die too. I never realized how true my statement was.

In the months and years following, I died inside. The person that my father knew and loved was no more. I saw my life crumble into pieces of a jigsaw and I had no idea how to put the puzzle back together.

I became consumed with hate and it was directed at everyone in my path —my mother, my teachers and even my friends. The perfect daughter was no more. The straight A student and future career woman (according to my father) had now become a rebellious teenager, with no goals or aspirations for the future. My mother tried tirelessly to reach me, but the closer she came, the further I pulled away. I would have continued along this path if it weren't for a certain teacher who recognized my turmoil and reached out to me in a way that no one else was able to. I shall never forget her question: "Do you think your father would be proud to see where you are today?" I felt frozen for a moment and then the ice began to melt away. I cried that day all the tears I had been holding back since my father's death. From that moment, I lived my life with one guideline—whatever I did, I wanted the assurance that my father would be proud of me.

My wedding day was indeed perfect. I realized that although my father was not there to give me away, he would have wanted to see me happy and, finally I was. My father used to think that I would be a lawyer, but sixteen years after his death, I am exactly who I was meant to be—a wife, a mother and a teacher. Recently, one of my graduating students wrote me a card expressing her gratitude. She said that I was her greatest inspiration and her second mom. It was at that moment that I was able, finally, to answer my teacher's question: "Yes, my father would be very proud."