One December, when I was 9, I was at my grandmother's house, the one on my mom's side. It happened to be Christmas Eve when I recieved the horrible news.
I don't remember how I got to my grandmother's, I just remember that my mom was upset for some reason. My 14 year old brother (who was 6 or 7 at the time) went to go watch chritsmas tv show specials in our gramdmother's room.
It may have been a few minutes later, or may have been an hour or two before our mom and our aunt came into the room. Our mom told me, our aunt told him, our dad had died the day before. I remember crying but don't recall what my brother did. I remember that it ruined the rest of my vacation.
I was also told two different stories on how he had died: one was that he tripped on a piece of wood and hit his head on the sidewalk and the second one was that he fell off a balcony and got a head injury. I believed the latter because it makes more sense, I still believe it.
Now I have spent years without a father, being jealous of others who have both parents, hating when people complain about how their parents agreed not to let him or her get something or go out to a certain place.