On my eighteenth birthday, my father was murdered. He died in the attack on the World Trade Center. I'd never see him again. I'd never hear his laugh or his cries. I'd never hug him or shake his hand. He'd never see me graduate from college or be there on my wedding day. He'd never see the birth of my children. My father's life was stolen, and the terrorists robbed my family and so many others of a lifetime of happiness.

After the initial shock wore off, my body flooded with fury. I didn't cry; I didn't weep. I didn't even mourn my father. Instead, I wanted revenge. I wanted blood. I wanted to kill.

I spent the next few months in a daze of anger and hatred. I stopped going to class, stopped eating, stopped sleeping. But I couldn't stop thinking about my father's last few moments on Earth. Did he die happy? Did he feel any pain? All I knew for sure was that my father died a loved man. He was my best friend, and I cared about him more than anything.

Would I ever repair the gaping wound left by his absence? Would I ever recover? I didn't think so. I didn't think it would be possible to mend this kind of broken heart. I couldn't contain my rage. I exploded and snapped at anyone and everyone.

On the other end of the grief spectrum, my mother almost never left the bedroom. I did my best to take care of her, and to be honest, I had the time since I'd forgone taking care of myself. She was numb to reality, yet felt it strongly all at once. The light left her eyes, and she wasn't living; she merely existed. She took an extended leave of absence from work, and I feared she'd never go back.

At school, my advisor suggested I take the rest of the semester off. He said I could use the break from school to grieve, and I still had time to back out of my classes without failing and tarnishing my GPA.

I gladly took my advisor’s advice and spent the rest of the semester at home with my mother. However, I knew I couldn’t stay home forever and owed it to my father to graduate from college, as he always wished I would.

The next couple of years passed in a daze. I managed to pass all my classes, but just barely. I treaded water, barely staying afloat. Between taking care of my mother and classes, I didn’t have time for much else. Eventually, I graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Business, but I had no idea how I’d use the piece of paper in the real world. Sure, there had to be dozens of opportunities in New York, but part of me couldn’t imagine working in a stuffy office from nine to five every day.

On September 11th, 2006, the fifth anniversary of the attack, I went to the Army recruiting center and enlisted.

For the first time since my father died, I regained some semblance of control. I decided to do something meaningful in my life. I found the direction I needed to survive.

The day I came home to tell my mom about my decision may have been the second most devastating day of my life.

"Mom?" I asked timidly as I stepped into her bedroom.

Even though the clock read three in the afternoon, she still hadn't gotten out of bed or eaten yet.

"Hi, William," she uttered.

"I have something to talk to you about. It's important."

"Mhmmm?"

I sat on her bed and realized she hadn't washed the sheets since before dad died. I could smell the faint aroma of him lingering in the bedding. I closed my eyes, inhaled and wished I could remember the way he smelled forever.

"I'm joining the military," I said.

"That's nice, dear."

I sighed. "Mom? Did you hear me? I'm going to fight for our country. I'm going to fight for Dad."

She peered at me with fresh eyes. "You're leaving?"

Her gaze pierced my heart, and I realized how much this would hurt her. She lost her husband, and now she was "losing" her only child.

"I enlisted in the Army. I need to do something meaningful with my life, and I think this is it."

"You're leaving school?" She stared out of the window.

"I already graduated, Ma. Remember you came to my ceremony in the spring? I start basic training in two weeks."

"That's soon," she answered absently.

"I love you, Mom. I want you to know that. I'll never stop loving you."

"I miss him."

I hung my head and took a deep breath to steady myself. "I miss him, too."

"I'm going to be all alone now."

My heart ached for my mother, but I knew I had to do this. I had to leave. I couldn't stay in this brownstone and go to work like nothing ever happened. Everything was different now. Nothing would ever be the same. In fact, if I stayed, she'd probably "lose" me sooner. For the first time in years, I felt a sense of hope and purpose. If I stayed, I knew I'd continue on the path to self-destruction.

"I promise I'll call as often as I can. And I'll write you, too. Okay?"

She nodded, but I could tell she'd lost all interest in the conversation. I bent down, kissed her cheek and went downstairs to make a phone call.

"Uncle Jim? It's William. I was hoping I could ask you for a favor."

My father's brother Jimmy was a great uncle and spoiled me as much as he could. He'd taken me fishing for the first time, gave me advice on girls, and even slipped me my first beer. Even though my father was the number one man in my life, my Uncle Jimmy was a solid number two.

"Well, I was hoping you might be able to come stay with my mom for a little while. I'm going away, and she needs someone to take care of her. She's in rough shape. Where am I going? Um, well, I'm going into the Army."

Silence impregnated the conversation. I knew my uncle was processing what I'd just told him. However, a moment later he told me he'd do whatever he could to help and that he was genuinely proud of me. I sighed heavily with his blessing in mind, and also because he said he would come that weekend to get settled and spend time with me before I left.

My uncle, a widower, never remarried. He was several years older than my father and retired when he turned fifty-five. Must be gratifying to be a successful financial adviser for thirty-plus years, huh?

Uncle Jimmy arrived as promised that weekend. I begged my mom to at least shower and get dressed before he came. I bought some groceries, at least enough to cook a decent meal with. Jitters rumbled in my belly as I waited for my uncle.

Once I heard the knock, I leaped up from the couch and raced to the door. When I threw it open, Uncle Jimmy stood on the doorstep with a broad grin stretched across his face.

He pulled me into a tight embrace, and without thinking, I began to sob into his chest. My father and Uncle Jimmy looked so similar; I thought my father stood before me for just a single moment. Having Uncle Jimmy here comforted me beyond all measures of the word.

That night, I made a simple chicken and pasta bake. My mother joined us for dinner and even managed to put on a touch of makeup. I hadn't seen her so put together since before the attack. We spent all evening sipping wine and tossing around the good memories of my father. Maybe it was possible to overcome my grief.

Maybe.