We had been living with my grandparents for about a month because we were building a home.

The day progressed, same as always, until my dad came to pick us up. That's when things went wrong, really wrong. My dad told my little brother, Oney, and me that we were going to a friend's house, and off we went. It was seven o'clock when I noticed the time. It was late. I had volleyball. Where were my parents? Finally my dad, mom, and older brother, Billy, arrived. Oney and I jumped in the van. A strange silence hung in the air. When we didn't turn to go into my grandparents' driveway, I questioned, but my parents remained like statues. We pulled into the Fred Meyer parking lot; then they dropped the bomb.

My dad told us that Gramma had died. The silence that once hung in the air seemed to crash down on me like a ton of bricks. Shock struck me like a bat does a ball. My hands got sweaty. My head began to throb. I was screaming, "NO!" inside. I couldn't move; I wanted to wake up from this terrible nightmare. I didn't understand. I had seen her just the night before, and she was fine. I must have asked my parents a million times, "How?" but they refused to answer.

We pulled into Wendy's to grab a quick bite to eat. It was there I grasped the reality behind things I couldn't even begin to think were true. My gramma had taken her own life to escape depression. This depression was increased by alcoholism. All these things I had never known. My family and I went to a friend's house to spend the night, ending the worst day of my life.

My gramma was a wonderful person, kind and loving. She made a mistake, like all humans do. Unfortunately, she couldn't learn from, nor correct, this mistake. I know this is a loss that will never just "go away," but it can get better.

The mistake my gramma made was a good lesson to me. It will always be a reminder that living is a gift. Finding the little things to enjoy goes a long way. So, live your life to the fullest, and don't throw it away.