Two years ago, my life was in a slow downward spiral and my father's death pushed it over the edge. I could see and feel my parents' marriage failing beneath me, dragging me into a pit of despair. Their exchange of displeased glances and constant fighting hit me like a dagger. Weeks and months passed until the day I dreaded arrived. “We need to talk about something very important,” my mother whispered in her comforting voice, but there were tears in her eyes and I knew what was coming. The news was heartbreaking and disappointing for my two brothers and me. I had always been proud of the fact that my parents' marriage had weathered America's 50% divorce rate. We continued to live in our house with our mother, but we visited my father often, due to the strong and intact bond between my father and his children. A year after the divorce he decided to find a new job as an oil worker, after countless attempts to make him reconsider this tedious, dangerous and overworking job, his stubbornness and drive to succeed encouraged him to stay. One night