Personal Narrative: Death Of My Father

I remember seeing the reflection of my room through the giant mirror on our hallway wall. My mother was in the bathroom, she was preparing for a night out - she had on the best pair of black leather ankle boots -- yet I nagged her to talk about my dad.
I was seven years old when my mom told me the story about death of my father; although, I’ve never gotten the full details until I was sixteen years old. Before that age, I usually created my own scenarios and scenes on how the tragedy happened. After those moments I’d often find myself very unhappy, I would focus my thoughts on a person I care dearly for but know nothing about. The questions I drill myself everyday with; Why him?, Why me?, Why my mother?, How come they never found the person