----I wrote this as writing my biography now so its in the past. I haven't reach quite one page yet so if you have any recommendations about what to add then that would be great.
OPTIONAL (Truly) <-----What a big fat lie
4. You have just completed your 300-page autobiography. Please submit page 217.
...eyes snapped open at that moment. My mother's wavering voice continued to recount how my father had collapsed at work. She frantically said, "I, I...I need to be there." An ambulance had rushed my father to Stanford Hospital at 12:40 A.M and in the same manner of the ambulance, my mother had rushed through the empty freeways to get to the emergency room.
At the age of fourteen, I understood what my mother and father needed from me now. The gravity of what had just happened seeped into me like the numbing cold of the brisk air outside. All the discussions inside locked cars about medical insurance policies and wills had prepared me for this kind of moment. I methodically unlocked the worn leather briefcase that held all of my family's important documents: birth certificates, social security cards, citizenship records. Every paper was archived where my mother said it would be all those talks ago. My father's tattered medical binder lay beneath dog-eared folders that were browned with age. It read that his birthday was on April 1st, 1945-that was a lie, a lie that he did not intentionally tell. A fugitive of the Vietnam War, my father lost many things as he immigrated from country to country, including his real birth date. He turned 70 years-old two months ago; his health is debilitated by Ménière's disease, extreme vertigo, hearing loss and a wide variety of other ailments that had come with old age. I took another look to ensure that his files were updated and accurate and put them in the overnight bag.
Logic held my feelings of concern and dread at bay. My role in the family was not to act like a panicked and immature adolescent, but a level-headed and considerate sister, daughter and caretaker. As I zipped up the duffel bag, I realized that I have been middle-aged for quite a while. I enjoy afternoon naps and the smell of Bengay ointment. My life is a fusion of two cultures and eras; my parents raised me to embrace the traditional values of a 1960's Vietnamese home although I am a child of the twenty first century.
So the forty-year-old me waited patiently for my mother to return as the fourteen-year-old me allowed one tear to escape.