Hello everyone! My name is Yao Sern, and I am 14 years old. I am currently studying in Year 10 at BSKL. I have decided to organise this fundraiser for Hospis Malaysia because I believe they are supporting a very noble cause. Starting a fundraiser for Hospis Malaysia was not something I ever imagined I would do, but after losing my father, it felt like the right way to honour his memory. I am fortunate to be healthy and have the privilege of pursuing my wishes and dreams, but I am aware that not everyone is so lucky. Having witnessed palliative care up close, I understand how much it costs and the strain it places on families. Thankfully, my family was wealthy enough to afford my father's equipment, medication, and nurses, but many are not so fortunate. Hospis Malaysia exists to support families like these, providing care without asking for any payment, relying solely on donations. Their goal is to deliver the best possible palliative care and improve the quality of life for both their patients and their families. I am confident that together, we can contribute to this mission and offer help to those who need it most!

Blog 3: My hero!

We were going to the beach and I was so excited. It was my first time experiencing the beach. The car ride there was so chaotic, my sister and I were fighting in the back seat over who got the spongebob themed towel, my mother was stressed as she left her sunscreen at home (it was actually in my bag) and my father was on a work call begging us to keep quiet. I had mixed feelings: happy to explore new things, scared that it may be a negative experience and tired from not being able to sleep the night before. To put us all at ease, my father began playing music on the radio and we were jamming out to old classics like Lincoln Park or the Backstreet boys. We were ecstatic!

 

We had decided to go early in the morning to avoid the crowd and to get a good spot on the beach. We reached the beach and were welcomed to the beautiful sight of the sunrise, the sounds of the gawking seagulls and the smell of fresh breeze. We found the perfect spot on the beach and began applying the sunscreen. After putting on our swimsuits, there was only one thing left to do. Enjoy!

There were a multitude of options that we could pick from such as fishing, swimming or even making sandcastle. We quickly chose to build sandcastles and got carried away as we completely covered my father with sand. It was kind of creepy seeing only his head sticking out of the sand. After that we decided to go swimming to wash away the sand, the sea was super cool and refreshing, the waves were swaying us up and down like a rollercoaster. However, as a 5 year old I wandered a bit too far away from the beach and got swept away. I could no longer touch the seabed and was being dragged by the tides, slowly submerging under water and beginning to drown. Thankfully, my father heroically fought against the harsh waves and saved me. What a hero!!!

In this near death experience I had learned 2 main things. The first thing that I learned is that I should not go too deep into the sea as I may never be able to get back. Secondly, I learned how brave my father was. It was one of the first memories that I have of my father and it will always have a special place in my heart. Without my father being there that day I will not be around today writing about it. He saved me!

***look out for my next story on 2/10/2024

Blog 12: Racing in the park

It was one of those perfect Saturday mornings when the sun hung high in the sky, painting everything with a warm glow. The park was alive with the sounds of laughter, the chirping of birds, and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. My dad and I decided it was the perfect day for a race, a spontaneous idea that filled me with excitement.

Last one to the big oak tree loses, he shouted, his competitive spirit kicking in. I barely had time to process his words before he took off, sprinting across the grassy field. I quickly followed, my heart pounding with adrenaline and laughter. The thrill of racing against my dad, the man who had taught me how to ride a bike and tie my shoe laces, was exhilarating.

As we raced, I could feel the wind rushing past me, a refreshing force that pushed me forward. My dad’s long strides were impressive, but I was determined not to let him win this time. I dug deep, finding a burst of energy as I imagined crossing the finish line first. The big oak tree stood tall in the distance, its branches stretching out like welcoming arms, and it felt like my goal was just within reach.

Come on, keep up, he called back, his voice teasing yet encouraging. I could hear the playful challenge in his tone, and it spurred me on even more. With every step, I could feel the soft earth beneath my feet and the warmth of the sun on my back. The world around us blurred into a tapestry of colors, but all I could focus on was the finish line and my dad ahead of me.

As we neared the oak tree, I pushed myself harder, my legs burning but my spirit soaring. I could see my dad glancing back, a grin on his face that said he was enjoying this as much as I was. With one final burst of energy, I sprinted past him, reaching out to touch the rough bark of the tree before he could.

I won! I exclaimed, panting and exhilarated.

He caught up a moment later, pretending to be out of breath, though I could see the twinkle of pride in his eyes. Well done! I didn’t see that coming, he said, laughing and ruffling my hair.

We leaned against the tree, catching our breath, the victory filling me with joy. In that moment, it didn’t matter who had won or lost. It was about the fun we had racing, the laughter we shared, and the bond that felt even stronger after that simple race.

As we sat beneath the sprawling branches of the oak tree, I couldn’t help but think about how these moments would become cherished memories. They were reminders that life was not just about competition but about the time spent together, the joy in the journey, and the laughter shared along the way. Racing down the park with my dad would forever be one of my favourite memories, a slice of childhood that I would carry with me always.

**look out for my next blog on 20/10/2024

Blog 16: The Milk Divide

Growing up, my dad and I shared a quirky bond that revolved around something simple—our love for milk. It wasn’t just a drink for us; it became a daily ritual. Every morning, without fail, Dad and I would sit at the kitchen table with tall glasses of cold milk. We’d raise our glasses in a playful toast, grinning like we were part of some exclusive club. The taste was always the same, creamy and refreshing but what made it special was the company.

During these milk moments, we would talk about everything, from serious topics like school and work to lighthearted conversations about football or weekend plans. It wasn’t just a habit; it became our way of connecting, a morning check-in that set the tone for the day. Milk, to us, wasn’t just a drink. It symbolized something constant, a shared experience that anchored our relationship.

Then there was my sister, who never quite understood our milk obsession. While Dad and I drank our milk with enthusiasm, she would sit across from us, clearly unimpressed, pushing her glass of untouched milk far away. She couldn’t comprehend how we could enjoy something she found so unappealing.

Despite our efforts to convert her into a fellow milk lover, my sister remained unconvinced. She always opted for juice or water, anything but milk. Dad, ever the teaser, never missed an opportunity to poke fun at her for her refusal to join our ritual. But my sister was resolute, rolling her eyes at our enthusiasm, steadfast in her choice to avoid milk.

Over time, it became a family joke. Every morning, as Dad poured our milk, he would pretend to offer a glass to my sister, fully aware that she would turn it down. She would play along with an exaggerated refusal, and we’d all end up laughing. This dynamic added a layer of fun to the mornings, Dad and I, the milk lovers, and my sister, the milk rebel.

As the years passed, our routines changed, and breakfast traditions evolved. Yet, even now, whenever I pour myself a glass of milk, I’m transported back to those mornings at the kitchen table. It reminds me of how something as simple as a drink could create such meaningful memories, binding us together in a way that felt both ordinary and extraordinary.

**look out for my next story on 28/10/2024

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Blog 17: The 100 PLUS tradition

Every Saturday, after a solid hour on the squash court, my dad and I would follow the same ritual. Squash had become “our thing,” a tradition we didn’t need to discuss or plan. He was the one who taught me how to play, patiently correcting my stances, encouraging me to give my best. I’d run around, lunging and diving for shots, while he would playfully dodge around, making me work for every rally. By the end, my legs would ache, and sweat would be dripping from my hair. But I knew that a cold reward awaited outside.

The squash center had this old vending machine just beyond the entrance, wedged between the restrooms and a narrow hallway. We would wander over, dad fishing out coins from his pocket while I leaned against the machine, peering through the glass. There was a lineup of cold drinks, but I only ever had eyes for the 100 Plus. It was our silent tradition – he never even asked me what I wanted. I always knew what he would choose too: a bottle of water, but only after he sneaked a sip from mine.

He handed me the coins, letting me be the one to punch in the numbers. The clink of coins dropping into the slot felt like a tiny ritual of its own, and the satisfying whirring noise as the machine processing my choice was a sweet reminder that our game was done. Then, with a final thud, out came the 100 Plus can. I would pick it up, icy cold against my warm hands, and pop it open. The hiss of carbonation felt like a reward in itself.

We would find a bench nearby, our usual spot under a shaded tree. I take that first sip, feeling the coldness spread through me, the bubbles making my nose tingle. He watched me, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, before asking, “Mind if I have a sip?” It was part of the tradition, and though he pretended he wasn’t a fan, I knew he liked it just as much as I did. We would sit together, talking about the game or our plans for the week, as if the squash court battles, the tired muscles, and that one can of 100 Plus were the ingredients of some sacred ritual. For me, those moments were worth more than any win or score – they were the real prize at the end of each game.

**look out for my next blog on 30/10/2024

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Blog 18: Revive vs 100 PLUS: Switching Sides

It was a hot Sunday afternoon, and after a long soccer match, my friend handed me a bottle of Revive. The cold, blue bottle glistened in his hand as he insisted I give it a try. I hesitated; my loyalty was to 100 Plus, a brand associated with countless squash games and post-match moments with my dad. But curiosity got the best of me, and I took a sip.

The taste surprised me. It was refreshing and tangy, a bit smoother than the fizzy, familiar taste of 100 Plus. I took another gulp, savoring the chill as it cut through the heat. There was something about it that felt instantly satisfying, almost… better. Jay, watching me closely, grinned knowingly, proud to have converted me. But as we packed up and headed home, a strange feeling of guilt began to creep in. This new drink somehow felt like a betrayal of the small tradition my dad and I had shared after each game.

Later that evening, as I sat quietly during dinner, my dad noticed my distracted expression. I finally admitted that I had tried Revive and, to my surprise, enjoyed it more than 100 Plus. I expected him to laugh or at least be a little disappointed, but he simply nodded with a smile, unfazed. It dawned on me then that maybe the drink itself didn’t matter as much as I had thought. We could be sharing any drink, really; what mattered was the time spent together and the memories built.

The next time we played squash, I brought along a bottle of Revive, hesitant yet hopeful. After the game, I handed it to him, and he took a sip without hesitation, nodding in approval. Somehow, even with this new drink, it still felt like tradition. It wasn’t the brand or the taste but the small, unspoken bond of those post-game moments that held all the meaning. And as we sat there, catching our breath and sipping Revive, I realized that some things go beyond the brands we choose, rooted in memories and time spent together

**look out for my next blog on 2/11/2024

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Blog 19: Disgusting Japanese Onsen

When my dad and I booked our Onsen visit in Japan, we imagined peaceful, rejuvenating moments in warm, natural springs, bonding in the tranquil beauty of Japanese tradition. What we actually experienced was anything but that.

Things felt off the moment we stepped into the Onsen lobby. The place was rundown, with peeling walls and an odd smell that didn’t exactly scream “relaxation.” My dad tried to laugh it off, chalking it up to “authentic rustic charm.” But even his optimistic grin faded as we walked through the dimly lit hallway, where an eerie flickering light barely kept the space lit.

In the changing room, we both realized this might be a mistake. The floor was damp and sticky, scattered with dark stains that made us feel uncomfortable walking around barefoot. A lone, weak fan was trying to fight the heavy, humid air, but it was clearly a losing battle. Both of us exchanged a look—maybe we should just leave? But we had come all this way, and we hoped the baths themselves would make up for the less-than-perfect surroundings.

Finally, we entered the outdoor bath, but our disappointment only deepened. The water was murky, and instead of a refreshing mineral smell, an unpleasant odor hung heavily in the air. The place was packed with other visitors talking loudly, making it feel more like a chaotic pool party than a serene spa. My dad and I tried to ignore the mess, hoping to relax, but the lukewarm water and the constant noise quickly shattered any hope of a peaceful soak.

We glanced around, hoping to spot someone from the management who might address the situation, but they seemed absent or unwilling to help. My dad gave me a half-smile and muttered, “Well, this is a first.” We lasted maybe ten minutes before we both got up, silently agreeing it was time to go. The changing room felt even worse on the way out, and we both rushed to get dressed.

Once we left, we couldn’t help but laugh—sometimes, things just go wrong no matter how hard you plan. It’s now a running joke between us, but also a reminder that not all travel dreams turn out as expected. Next time, we’ll make sure to read the reviews a bit more carefully!

**look out for my next blog on the 4/11/24

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Blog 20:A Sacred Moment: Honoring a Monk's Legacy in a Thai Temple

Upon entering the temple, we were enveloped by the serene ambiance, with the faint scent of incense and the soft, rhythmic chimes of bells creating an atmosphere of peace. The architecture was awe-inspiring—ornate pillars, golden carvings, and vibrant murals celebrating Buddhist teachings. Among these captivating sights, the monk’s statue seemed humble but held an undeniable presence. His image was serene, eyes gently closed, with hands poised in a gesture of peace.

We learned that this statue was more than a tribute; it embodied the respect and admiration the community felt for a monk who had dedicated his life to teaching and guiding others. His wisdom and compassion resonated deeply with the people even after his passing. This touched us, emphasizing the universal values of kindness and honoring those who selflessly contribute to society.

In a quiet moment, my dad and I knelt before the statue to offer a prayer. Although we were not from this community, it felt meaningful to pause and show respect for a person who had positively impacted so many lives. This moment of shared silence reminded us of the power of empathy and the common ground that connects people, regardless of their backgrounds or beliefs.

Reflecting on this experience, I felt a newfound appreciation for the ways communities honor those who embody wisdom and compassion. For my dad and me, it was also a bonding moment, reinforcing the values we hold dear—respect for others’ beliefs and appreciation for those who lead lives of service.

Our visit to this temple was more than a part of our travels; it was a lesson in humility and respect, reminding us of the strength of community and the importance of honoring lives dedicated to selfless service.

**look out for my next blog on 6/11/2024

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Blog 21: The Boxer Bond

Growing up, my dad and I had an unwritten rule: once we were home and the day’s demands faded, it was time to switch into relaxation mode. For us, that meant one thing: boxers and sleeveless shirts. No fancy loungewear or sweatpants—just a pair of comfortable boxers, a simple top, and the feeling of pure, cozy freedom.

It started as something I copied from him. I remember walking into the living room as a kid, seeing my dad sprawled out on the sofa in his mismatched, brightly patterned boxers and a plain top, completely at ease. He would pat the seat beside him, inviting me to join him, and I would settle in, mimicking his relaxed style. I was young—probably around six or seven—and I already wanted to be just like him, right down to our “home uniform.”

Over the years, this became a tradition we shared without ever needing to discuss it. Lazy Saturdays or quiet evenings would find us both in our signature outfits, slouched on the couch, watching football or catching an old movie. This boxer-and-sleeveless routine grew into a symbol of our bond. It wasn’t about what we watched or talked about; it was about the time spent unwinding together. Sometimes, we would cheer on his favourite team, Arsenal, or pull out a deck of cards for a quick game, enjoying each other’s company.

As I grew older, I realized how much I cherished these small, shared moments. After a long day, coming home to find him already on the couch in his relaxed attire was like a reminder that there was always a place of calm waiting for me. Just sitting there beside him, both of us at ease, had a way of making all the day’s stresses fade away.

Even now, I find myself on quiet weekends at home, slipping into my own boxers and a top. It’s a habit that stayed with me, like a piece of our time together. In those moments, it’s as though he’s still there beside me, both of us embracing that little boxer bond, savoring the comfort of simplicity.

**look out for next blog on 8/11/2024

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Blog 22: The Family Campout on the Couch

It was a stormy night, with lightning flashing and thunder rumbling so close it seemed to shake the whole house. We were all upstairs in our rooms, just starting to settle in for the night, when suddenly everything went dark. A brief silence followed, then we all realized the power had gone out.

At first, we thought it might be a flicker, but a few minutes passed, and only the upstairs lights remained stubbornly off. My dad grabbed a flashlight, casting long, strange shadows as he moved down the hallway, while the rest of us fumbled for any source of light. After a quick check, he returned, casually announcing that the outage upstairs would last longer than expected. So, it seemed we would all be sleeping downstairs for the night.

A bit of grumbling followed, but there was something exciting about the idea too. We gathered pillows, blankets, and a few late-night snacks. My little sister grabbed her stuffed animal, refusing to part with it, while my mom quickly claimed the softest corner of the couch. Soon, the whole living room transformed into a cozy nest, with blankets layered on every surface we could find.

The storm continued outside, and the soft sound of rain tapping against the windows made it feel like we were tucked away in a little cabin. My dad settled in, starting to reminisce about other memorable storms we had been through together and recalling how we once spent a night in a power outage during a family vacation. My sister and I laughed, thinking of all the strange and funny moments we had.

After the stories, we all settled into our spots, finding room on couches, recliners, and even on the floor with the blankets piled high. The cramped quarters ended up more fun than expected. We shared quiet whispers and silly jokes, made shadow puppets on the walls with our flashlights, and tried to ignore the occasional loud snore from dad, who was sprawled out across the couch.

One by one, we drifted off to sleep, feeling warm and safe, the family all gathered together in one room. It might not have been the most comfortable night, but lying there close to one another, we knew it was one of those simple nights we would remember

**look out for my next blog on 10/11/2024

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Blog 23:Ants and Bali

It was a sweltering afternoon in Bali when I ventured into the rice fields near a village, hoping to witness rice harvesting up close. The green terraces stretched out under the sun, and the earthy smell of wet soil and frangipani filled the air. Slipping off my sandals, I walked carefully along the muddy paths, enjoying the cool, damp earth under my feet.

I knelt to examine a cluster of rice plants and gently started plucking grains from the stalks. Suddenly, a sharp sting shot up my ankle. Startled, I looked down to find tiny red ants crawling up my legs, each one biting with fierce determination. Panic took over as I tried to shake them off, hopping and swatting at my legs, but the ants clung on, biting with every movement. After a few frantic moments, I managed to scramble to the edge of the field, leaving the tiny invaders behind.

Back at our bungalow, my legs were throbbing, covered in red welts that burned and itched. Dad took one look at my swollen ankles and knew exactly what had happened. Without a word, he went to fetch a jar of his homemade ointment, a blend he made using aloe vera and natural oils. This was his go-to-remedy for insect bites, something he made countless times to help soothe stings and bites quickly.

Gently, he applied the ointment over each welt, the coolness immediately relieved the burning sensation. The aloe vera’s soothing properties combined with the natural oils made the bites feel less intense, and within minutes, the throbbing began to fade. Dad’s quick actions and his simple, effective remedy turned a painful experience into a lesson in patience and practical care.

The next morning, with the stings all but forgotten, we returned to the fields, this time carefully watching our steps. I stuck to the paths, admiring the beauty of the rice terraces from a safe distance. Collecting a few grains became a peaceful task as I stayed mindful of where I was walking, avoiding the bustling lines of tiny ants at work.

The whole experience had been an eye-opener. Even the smallest creatures can make a big impact if you’re not paying attention, and Dad’s natural remedy proved that sometimes the simplest solutions are the best. That day, I gained a deeper respect for both nature’s little defenders and Dad’s tried-and-true wisdom.

**look out for my next blog on 12/11/2024

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Blog 24:Spice Tolerance battle

One unforgettable night, my dad decided we were going to try a new Indian restaurant, famous for dishes that would make even the bravest diners break a sweat. I knew I couldn’t handle spice, but I went along with it, thinking, “How bad can it really be?”- famous last words.

As soon as we sat down, my dad, with his usual unshakable confidence, ordered the curries with a casual “medium spice.” I felt a pang of panic but figured it couldn’t be that extreme. The dishes arrived, and the smell was incredible—rich, aromatic, and inviting. I thought, “Maybe I’ve underestimated myself. Maybe tonight’s the night I conquer spice.”

With all the optimism in the world, I took my first bite. Instantly, my mouth was ablaze. I could feel the heat spreading from my tongue, and it felt like my whole face was on fire. My eyes watered, my nose started running, and I was desperately trying not to make a scene. My dad noticed me struggling and, with a barely concealed smirk, calmly took a bite of his own. “See?” he said, as if he just tasted a mild soup.

Meanwhile, I was in full meltdown mode. I downed my entire glass of water, but it didn’t help. I ordered another, and then another, hoping it would cool the fire. I muttered a few expletives under my breath, though with my mouth on fire, I could barely speak. My dad just chuckled and continued eating, looking completely unbothered by the inferno on his plate. “You’ll get used to it,” he said, with a shrug, like enduring this level of pain was just part of growing up.

The heat wasn’t subsiding. Each bite felt like I was taking a step deeper into some fiery abyss. Sweat trickled down my face, and I was starting to think that I wouldn’t survive this dinner. But my dad was still going strong, eating his curry with ease. He gave me this knowing look, like he found the whole thing hilarious, and that just made it worse.

After enduring what felt like hours, I finally admitted defeat. I pushed my plate away, waving a white flag. Dad laughed, saying that next time I would be able to handle it better. But I knew the truth: there wouldn’t be a next time. I rather stick to the mild side of life, leaving my dad to tackle spice levels I would never dare attempt again.

**look out for my next blog on 14/11/2024

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Blog 25:The Hidden Coins

As I was rummaging through my dad's closet one afternoon, I came across a handful of random coins scattered in a small drawer, half-hidden underneath a couple of old shirts. They weren’t stored in any special box or case, just loose coins that he probably tossed there over the years without much thought. They weren’t valuable or part of any collection; they were simply there because he hadn’t known what else to do with them. But something about finding those coins made me pause for a moment.

Each coin looked different, a mix of various currencies and dates, and while there was no real pattern to them, they felt like fragments of my dad’s everyday life. He had kept them here without any particular reason, yet discovering them felt like uncovering a small part of him that had been tucked away, just like those coins. I began to wonder about their stories. Had he pocketed them from past trips, or were they simply leftover change he had forgotten to spend? They seemed unimportant at first glance, but now, holding them, they felt oddly meaningful to me.

Without fully thinking it through, I took the coins in my hand and carried them over to my room. I decided to put them in my safe, alongside a few small valuables and keepsakes of my own. The coins themselves weren’t what mattered; it was the unexpected feeling they gave me—this tiny link to my dad’s quiet, everyday habits. Placing them in my safe was my way of preserving something of him, something that was part of his daily life yet that went unnoticed.

A few days later, he noticed they were missing from the drawer and asked if I had seen them. I explained that I put them in my safe, thinking it might be nice to keep them there, and he gave a soft chuckle. “Well, that’s one way to keep them secure,” he said, smilingly. He didn’t seem to mind that I had taken them; if anything, he seemed amused. For him, they were random bits of change without purpose. For me, though, they became a quiet reminder of him, locked away alongside my own memories and small treasures. In some ways, those coins became more valuable in that safe than they had ever been in his drawer, a silent memory I could hold onto whenever I needed a connection to him.

**look out for my next blog on 16/11/2024

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Blog 27:The Silent Comfort

Every night had a familiar rhythm in our house, one that my dad and I had settled into without ever formally agreeing upon it. Bedtime routines were split down the middle: my mom would lie down beside my sister, tucking her in and keeping her company until she drifted off, while my dad would come to my room, making sure I was never left alone in those quiet hours before sleep.

Most nights, I would find him already stretched out on the floor, lying on his side with his head propped up on a pillow or resting on his arm. There was nothing special or ceremonial about it, but that simple presence carried more comfort than words could ever express. He would lie there, keeping me company, sometimes chatting softly about my day, asking how I was feeling, or letting me share the things on my mind. If I didn’t have much to say, he would stay anyway, silently sharing the room space.

The silence between us never felt uncomfortable. In fact, it was a part of the routine I came to treasure most. I would curl up in my bed while he lay on the floor, feeling the sense of ease that comes from knowing someone’s there, someone who doesn’t need you to say much. Some nights, I would try to stay awake longer, curious to see if he would still be there. Even if I managed to stay awake longer than usual, he always waited, patiently lingering until I truly began to nod off.

In his own unspoken way, my dad was telling me that he would be there as long as I needed. He didn’t need to tell me that he cared; his simple presence was more than enough. Those quiet nights became a safe haven, the comfort of knowing that even as sleep pulled me under, I wasn’t alone.

As I grew older, I realised how deeply those memories had rooted themselves in my mind. When I felt alone or uncertain, the memory of him lying on my floor comes back, reminding me that love doesn’t always need grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s as simple as lying down on a hard floor beside your child’s bed, being there in silence and watching with patience. In that unspoken love, I felt more secure than I ever had.

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Blog 28: The Multiplication Drills

When I was young, my dad made it his mission to ensure I knew my multiplication tables backward and forward. For him, learning math was essential, and he approached it as if it were a rite of passage, a way to build both my skills and my discipline. So, each day, after I finished my homework, he would sit me down at the dining table, his old multiplication chart spread out in front of us.

With calm persistence, he would cover parts of the chart and quiz me on different tables, watching closely as I tried to recall each answer. If I stumbled, he would make me repeat the answer, over and over, until I could say it confidently. Sometimes, he would share a few tricks or shortcuts to help me remember tricky numbers, but mostly, it was repetition—no shortcuts, just practice. Every evening, this routine continued until I was able to go through the tables without a pause.

He kept things unpredictable, quizzing me at random times, too. In the car or at a restaurant, he would ask me for quick answers to problems, like seven times eight or six times nine. If I answered correctly, he would simply nod, as if acknowledging my progress; if I missed, we had to go over it again later.

At the time, I found it exhausting, maybe even a little unfair. But looking back, I realize he believed in my ability to master it, showing me that confidence wasn’t handed over effortlessly; it was earned through practice and persistence. Slowly, the tables became second nature. What started as a daily challenge turned into an automatic reflex.

Now, as I look back on those evenings, I see what he was really teaching me. It wasn’t just about math or memorizing numbers—it was about understanding the value of effort and patience. He wanted me to learn that some things require work, that repetition isn’t always exciting but builds a strong foundation. Even now, when I calculate something in my head with ease, I think of those multiplication drills, a reminder of his quiet lessons in perseverance and the steady discipline he instilled, one number at a time.

**look out for my next blog on 22/11/2024

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Blog 29: The Game That Never Happened

Playing Call of Duty was something I always wanted to experience, a dream that seemed just out of reach. I often imagine it: the excitement of missions, the strategies, and the rush of teaming up with others in intense battles. But without a PS4 or gaming PC, it was just a distant idea. I caught glimpses of gameplay videos whenever I could, getting lost in the action on the screen and picturing myself right there in the thick of it.

One day, my dad noticed me watching a video of COD on my phone. He asked me about it, and I told him all about the game—the action, the teamwork, the thrill of every mission. He listened more intently than I had expected, nodding along and asking questions. For a moment, I let myself think that maybe he was intrigued, maybe even considering giving it a try with me one day.

We talked about it here and there, sharing little laughs about how he would probably struggle with the controls. But I could tell he was genuinely interested. He seemed to enjoy listening to my passion, seeing how animated I got when I described the different game modes and strategies. I even showed him how you could pick your weapons and plan your approach to each mission.

Even though we never got the chance to actually play together, those conversations meant a lot. Talking about COD with him was like having a small piece of the game itself. He may not have fully understood the thrill, but he was happy to let me share it with him. Looking back, I think he appreciated the way it brought us closer, even without the console or the controls in our hands.

I still imagine what it would’ve been like to play a game or two with him. Maybe we would stumble through the first few rounds, laugh at our own mistakes, and eventually find our rhythm as a team. Even if it never happened, I’ll always hold onto those small moments—those shared conversations about a game that he knew I cared about and that, in a small way, brought us together in a world of imagination and possibilities.

**look out for my next blog on 24/11/2024

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