The Best Day of My Life
If I had to choose only one day in my life to live it again, it would be September, 23th in 1996. I was seven years old and I used to spend my afternoons cooking with my mom or reading short stories with my grandpa.
Every day at six o’clock, my dad would come home and tell us about his day at the office. He was always very tired but still cheerful. He never let anything bad from his work show in his mood once he got home.
On the 23th of September, something unusual happened. I was taking peeks through the window since a quarter to six, as I did every afternoon. The church bell sang and I knew it was six o’clock, and my dad would be home any minute.
The time past by and he didn’t arrived. My mom was beginning to worry. Cell phones were not very common at that moment, so we had no way of getting in touch with him. Mom called the office: he had left at half past five, as accustomed.
Finally, after thirty long minutes, his car appeared in front of our porch. Mom asked me to stay with grandpa as she ran out to see him. I looked through the window again and I saw dad was getting out of the car with difficulty, as if he were carrying something heavy.
He was. Mom entered the house with a gloating smile, saying something about choosing names. After her, entered my dad, with a box carrying three little puppies that have been my best friends since that wonderful day.