Growing up, I didn’t know a lot of things. I didn’t understand why my family’s faces looked so sad when we went to visit my grandfather in the hospital. Or why there was a hospital-like bed at my sister-in-law’s home. I didn’t know why I never got to meet my mom’s father. When I was little, I didn’t really mind or have genuine interest in these people. But now that I’m older, I really wish I knew him.

When I was little, around four or five, I visited my other grandpa, Philipe Estevez, in the hospital. I held a photo I had drawn of us in my hand. When I entered the room, it was quiet and sad. My tias (his sisters) and my tios (his brothers) were downcast. They stared at his fragile frame, which was connected to tubes and wires that were monitoring his heart. I didn’t know at the time that  cancer was taking his life.

Months later I accompanied my father, a small purse of tissues in hand, to my grandfather’s grave. It was the only time I’ve seen my dad cry. I don’t remember any tears because I didn’t know who the grave belonged to. I was still too young.

Whenever I try to ask questions about Richard, my grandfather on my mom’s side, she answers as quickly as she can with as few words as possible. Then she changes the subject. Neither did my uncle, since my grandfather died shortly after he was born. My mom was only eleven. They lost their father due to a blood clot. I did learn a few things about him last year when my younger sister did a report on him and his heritage. He was part French, enjoyed playing tennis, and was never fully replaced through future relationships. After his death, my grandmother remarried twice, though I never met either man.

A few summers ago, my brother married his best friend, Emily. Our parents were seated in the front with smiles on their faces. His wife’s parents were in the front row, smiling as well, though one was there only in the frame of a picture.

Emily lost her mother to cancer. I didn’t know her very well, I was little when she passed away. I wish I knew her though. She must have been a kind women since my family had lent a hand in remodeling her room so that she would be comfortable. I didn’t know her as well as her kids or her granddaughter did. Emily missed her enough to include a photo of her on the happiest day of her life. Many people wouldn’t want to be reminded of a difficult time during a happy occasion.

What I’ve learned from my sorrow is something really simple – I need to appreciate my family more. We always look at our families as though they’ll be here forever, but, quite frankly, anything can happen. Arthur Schopenhuaer once said, “Only loss teaches us the value of things.” Unfortunately, he was right.