At the end of break, I had an overwhelming desire to stay home. Honestly, it's always a little hard to go back to school once you are home, but this time was a lot more intense. I couldn't bear the idea of finals and, worse than that, final grades. Near the end of the week, I found myself asking my parents if I could extend my stay. They wouldn't budge.

On my last night, I was up late watching a movie about the Holocaust. Alone in my bed, in the pitch dark, a sneaking memory of my grandfather kept prodding the back of my mind.

He was a sweet, soft-spoken man, one of those people that stand out to others for being so kind. He accommodated everybody's needs before his own and he always smiled. To anyone who had met him in his adult life, nobody would know he spent his childhood in the tragedy of Auschwitz. Growing up, I always knew he was a survivor, but nobody had quite outlined to me exactly what he had survived.

As I watched the events of the Holocaust unfold in front of my eyes, my heart sank to my stomach. Here I was, feeling sorry for myself about mundane obstacles in life when at my age my grandpa was fighting for his life. I sat in the darkness with my thoughts for a while, contemplating how I could be so vain.

Yet, as the sun rose and I still sat there sleepless, I decided I cannot punish myself for being upset with the life that I have. My grandfather didn't just fight for his life, but his children and their children after that. I was privileged to lay in my cozy bed stressing about school and boys because my grandfather had awarded me that right.

With that realization, I swear at the same moment, a shadow danced along the room. For that split second, I felt his presence with me.