My world as I knew it has ended abruptly for me.

My daddy was killed last week by a drunk driver.  He was crossing the street, and this car came out of nowhere and plowed into him.  Didn't even slow down: the driver ran over my father and kept on going.  As you can imagine, Daddy was badly injured.

Daddy didn't even make it to the hospital: he died before the ambulance even got to him.  He was only 60 years of age, far too young to go like he did.

Meanwhile, we, his surviving family members are left, shaking our heads, and asking ourselves the same question over and over again: "WHY?"

And the guy who ran over our father probably got out of jail on some sort of legal technicality, and probably not showing any remorse for what he did.  Seems that's what usually happens: the criminals get off scot free and the victims and their families are the ones who are left to suffer the consequences of their irresponsibilities.

We buried Daddy on Monday.  Daddy died on Saturday.  In two days it will be a week since our lives were turned upside down like this.  And I am feeling outright anger, bitterness, and even hatred towards the bastard who wrecked our lives.

Daddy's death hit me particularly hard.  He and I were very close: I was still his little girl, even though I was in my thirties and had two children under the age of four.  He doted on me and on his grandchildren; now my kids will never see their grandpa ever again, and I will never get to hear Daddy say "I love you" or call me his "li'l pun'kin" ever again.  All because some jerk decided to get drunk before getting behind the wheel of his car and ended my Daddy's life even before Daddy got a chance to retire from his job at the auto plant he'd worked at for over 30 years.

~To be continued!~