Being the oldest child in my family, I had grown up thinking I knew what it meant to be mature and responsible. As if having a younger sibling was qualification enough, I had taken on the mantle of adulthood like a naive child playing superhero dress-up, not fully knowing the meaning of it all. I don't know why I was in such a rush to get there. As I walked my father into the exam room this morning, the glimmer of adulthood dulled, and I saw with clear eyes the sobering truth of real responsibility and maturity. He is 60 years old, and he will not live forever. As if 58 or 59 were far from 60, I had lived last year and the one before as if he'd always be there to walk me through life. I had always made decisions knowing that in real trouble my dad would be able to get me out and took comfort knowing that my dad was taking care of our family. But one day I have to come to terms with "No one will be there but you."
Responsibility has never felt so heavy.
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