My dad was my Superman. Not because he could fly or lift cars, but because he showed up every single day of my life. The day after his funeral, a stranger knocked on my door and told me my whole life was built on a lie. Turns out, I was right about the hero part… just not the way I thought.
AdvertisementMy dad, Kevin, was my hero. He was the kind of man who made pancakes on Saturdays. Not just any pancakes. He’d flip them high in the air and catch them in the pan, pretending to fumble just to hear me laugh.

We didn’t have much money growing up, but somehow Dad made our tiny apartment feel like a palace.He showed up to everything. Parent-teacher meetings where he’d sit in those too-small chairs and nod seriously while my teacher talked about my math homework.Baseball games where he’d arrive straight from his second shift, still in his work boots, clutching a thermos of coffee and cheering louder than anyone else in the stands.When I was seven, I had nightmares about monsters under my bed.Dad would come in at two in the morning, sit on the edge of my mattress, and rub circles on my back until I stopped shaking.