[originaltext] I was 9 years old when I found out my father was ill. It was

I was 9 years old when I found out my father was ill. It was 1994, but I can remember my mother’s words as if it were yesterday: "Carol, I don’t want you to take food from your father, because he has AIDS. Be very careful when you are around him."
    AIDS wasn’t something we talked about in my country when I was growing up. From then on, I knew that this would be a family secret. My parents were not together anymore, and my dad lived alone. For a while, he could take care of himself. But when I was 12, his condition worsened. My father’s other children lived far away, so it fell to me to look after him.
    We couldn’t afford all the necessary medication for him, and because Dad was unable to work, I had no money for school supplies and often couldn’t even buy food for dinner. I would sit in class feeling completely lost, the teacher’s words were drowned as I tried to figure out how I was going to manage.
    I did not share my burden with anyone. I had seen how people reacted to AIDS. Kids laughed at classmates who had parents with the disease. And even adults could be cruel. When my father was moved to the hospital, the nurses would leave his food on the bedside table even though he was too weak to feed himself.
    I had known that he was going to die, but after so many years of keeping his condition a secret, I was completely unprepared when he reached his final days. Sad and hopeless. I called a woman at the nonprofit National AIDS Support. That day, she kept me on the phone for hours. I was so lucky to find someone who cared. She saved my life.
    I was 15 when my father died. He took his secret away with him, having never spoken about AIDS to anyone, even me. He didn’t want to call attention to AIDS. I do.