My dad was my Superman. Not because he could fly or bend steel, but because he showed up—every day, every time, no matter how tired he was or how heavy life got. The morning after I buried him, a stranger knocked on my door and tried to rip that truth out of me with one sentence. She said my entire life was built on a lie. She was wrong about the lie. She was right about the hero. Growing up, it was just the two of us. Our apartment was small and the furniture didn’t match, but Dad had a…
She was wrong about the lie.

She was right about the hero.

Growing up, it was just the two of us. Our apartment was small and the furniture didn’t match, but Dad had a way of making it feel like we lived somewhere warm and safe. On Saturdays he’d wake me up with the smell of pancakes and the sound of his voice pretending to narrate a cooking show.

“Welcome back,” he’d say, like the kitchen was a stage. “Today, we attempt the impossible. The triple flip.”