In a typical American household, one argument is consistently fought: what's for dinner? In my house at least, this argument is made just about every night. For a family of very picky eaters, we have about seven options that we rotate around, one for each night of the week. It gets a little repetitive at times, but we always manage to find something.

One day last May, my parents came home from one of my father's many hospital visits. It was late at night, maybe eight or nine o'clock, and my brother and I were starving. I was busy doing homework so I could not cook and it would take a dire emergency for my brother to pick up a pot and boil some water. As my parents walked through the door, my brother and I bombarded them with the usual "I'm hungry" cry. Before I even asked them about how the appointment went, I expressed how hungry I was. The selfish part of me felt that guilt eat me up inside. I saw the exhaustion painted all over my father's face because of the three days of chemo he just endured. He could barely walk, let alone stand up, because of how bloated his calves were. I could tell he was nearing the end, but being a typical seventeen year old, I was only worried about myself.

"I'm going upstairs and will be down in a minute to make you food," my mother yelled.

Those were the words I wanted to hear. I could hear my stomach growling and I could not wait to devour my dinner. I was in the mood for Mrs. T's Mini Classic Cheddar Pierogies, a pretty easy meal to cook. However, before my mom could make it downstairs, the unthinkable happened.

"Sophie, pull me up a chair and take the pierogies out of the freezer. I will make them for you," my father whispered, barely managing to get the words out.

I saw the exhaustion all over his face, but I knew he wanted to do this for me. That was the kind of guy he was; he always would make other people happy before himself, even during his last days.

I pulled up a chair to the stove and watched him shuffle the pierogies in a large pan. He could barely see above the pan as he persevered through the pain. The sizzling began to intensify and I left the room. I couldn't believe that my father would make me dinner even when he was in so much discomfort. Making dinner is such a mundane task, but mundane tasks became a hardship for my family last May and June. It is the mundane tasks that you remember years from now, not the grand gestures that have so much distraction entangled in them.

Once the pierogies were ready, my father found the strength to stand up for thirty seconds to transfer them from the pan to the bowl. He softly called my name to come eat, but I could see something was wrong. He had a tear in his eye. I will never know if it was because of the pain he was experiencing or if it was because he knew that would be one of the last times he cooked, one of his passions in life.

This specific instance of a humdrum task defined my father; he would always put others above himself. Although my family will be without him today and everyday forward, he will forever be in our hearts.