When I was 10 years old, I lived with my mom and step-dad. But every other weekend, I would go to my dad's house.

    He lived way out in the country. Dust would fly as our car turned down the road where his house sat. Sometimes he would take the turn just a bit too quickly, and I would squeal with amusement.

    At his house, there weren't many toys, but we survived. We would play outside for hours. Sometimes we watched TV for hours. My dad was sick, so he didn't play much, but he loved to watch cartoons with us. 

    "Let's watch some Sponge!" He'd say. I would excitedly search the channels to see if Spongebob was playing.

    Then, one night in February, my mom and step-dad sat us down in the living room. 

    "Someone died," they said.

    "Who?" I asked worriedly.  

    "Your dad."

Some sound escaped me. A scream? A groan? I can't be sure. It didn't feel real. It was like I was watching from outside the living room window.

    There was a funeral. After some time I went back to school. The office ladies were really nice. If I was feeling sad, they said I could come to the office and get a piece of chocolate anytime I wanted. So I did that a lot. 

    Somehow, life went on. It always does. Along the way, I met kids like me: kids with a parent who had died. It didn't instantly bond us. We just knew. Knew what it was like. We didn't have to say "Sorry for your loss." But sometimes we still said it.

    I became comfortable with my identity. A kid with a dead dad. It was sad, but it was life. People die. A morbid sense of humor developed between my siblings and I. One day, I told my siblings about a thought I had. 

    "We're in the DPC."

    "What's that?" They asked. 

    "The Dead Parent Club."

    "Oh my god. That is so messed up." My sister shook her head.

    I continued, "It's the club you never want to join, but once you're in it, you're a member for life."

    She started to laugh. 

    "You're too much" my brother said, laughing too.