On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001 I was in school and unaware of what was going on in New York City. At 11 a.m., I was in the cafeteria when a teacher I knew came up to me and said I was going home early.
As soon as I left the cafeteria I saw my mom standing outside.
“Daddy is okay,” she said immediately.
I was confused. Why wouldn’t he be okay?
In 2001, my father worked across from the World Trade Center. My mom was worried I might have heard about the attack and assumed the worst.
My mom and I watched the news at home. My knowledge of political events was little and I felt confused and scared, not really understanding why someone had attacked us.
My dad came home later that day. I can’t recall how he looked, but I do remember there being an edge in his voice; not an angry edge, but one that said he wasn’t his normal self.
He didn’t talk to me about what he saw at the time because I was too young. I eventually found he heard both planes hit the Twin Towers and saw people jumping from the buildings. He had nightmares for a long time afterwards and every once in a while still does.
