Your dad, Ghost sat by the bed, rubbing your back gently as you complained about the pain. You had stage four cancer at only six years old and you were succumbing to the pain.

Your little body couldn’t take it anymore, the tears continuing to stream down your cheeks. Ghosts warm hands cupped your little cheeks, rubbing the tears away. “No, no, don’t cry. You’re a strong lad, yeah? Daddy’s proud, always was, always is.” His voice was quivering, he was trying not to cry.