The pretentious cookie-cutter families commercials always depicted looked like demons next to us. We were a perfect bunch and the apple successfully fell right under the tree, in the shade, catching a hint of sunlight to ripen into the perfect fruit. Every student that got to see me “be” wanted to be me. They told their parents about my family and how perfect they thought we were. And those same parents would always compare their child to me, scolding them if they didn’t meet the mark. 

The worst thing about being put on a pedestal is being put on a pedestal. It’s simple really; if you do dumb shit, you’re going to be obliterated, persecuted, and hung on a stick to be fed to the wolves. There’s a fine line between expectancy and actuality; we may see someone the way we expect them to be and totally remain blinded by who said person might actually be. 

I remember as a boy, I’d see my old man standing on the pier, a hand in pocket while the other held a beer. He would wake up at four every morning, get dressed and then take a beer outside. He’d be out there for a good two hours and then would greet the rest of the family when they woke up. One day I asked him why he did that. He smiled and told me he was glad I had been watching him, that maybe now I could do the same. When he saw that I didn’t understand, he explained that the only way a man could be a man was if he could protect his family and have time to think. 

“Only a clear and focused mind will allow you to succeed,” he’d say.

I understood. And ever since that day, I had the best reason to aspire to be the man that he was. He was the man I so desperately needed to imitate in order to better my future and the people I’d let in it. 

Superman. Everyone sees him as this hero and no one wonders what inspires him. Who was that person in Clark Kent’s life that made him so humble and heroic to live a double life in order to keep our world safe? That’s what my dad used to call me; Superman. And because I was Superman, looking up to my dad, I'd always believed that Superman knew someone who he thought was a better, more qualified, man. Someone who he himself has aspired to be like. My dad was the superior of Superman.

Between the arguing and the fighting, I didn’t know if my family was headed for a cliff or if we’d already fallen; on our way down to total damnation. The thing is, I loved my parents, and so did everyone else. The pressure was intimidating and the forever-lingering comments and watchful eyes only helped the deterioration of their marriage along. What’s most sad is that I always thought I loved my parents equally but when push came to shove, I believed my mother was in the wrong. I hated her, I began to become careless to her very existence. I would look at her in disgust and wonder how she could ever ruin something so perfect. The day the divorce had actually taken place I felt overwhelmed. I had even wished that my dad could find a more suitable mate. After the meeting was over and the divorce finalized, I thought I’d step in and give my dad a sympathetic-type-congratulatory hug. 

At that moment, stepping into the office I could feel my fingers gripped around the doorknob go numb. I felt my palms grow sweaty and my entire body feel weak. It was a slow disintegration, my body slightly collapses making me appear drunk. What I had seen could never be forgiven and what I heard was like a spoiler alert for the rest of my life, because the one I had been previously living was a lie. 

They didn’t see or hear me open the door. Their conversation continued on as if they were the only two in the world. His lawyer was pregnant with a huge ass who spoke with clarity. 

“I told you I could get the divorce done quickly” she smirked removing her glasses.

“Happy you could too, she was beginning to ask questions...” 

“Okay so, with the prenuptial agreement you’ll be leaving with more than you came in with, which is great for Todd and our precious Nala”. 

“Yea, can’t believe we’re on number two” he looked down rubbing her belly.

“I love you, and never forget to remember that” he looked her in her eyes.

She responded “and I’ll never forget that”

I mouthed those five words with her because I remembered how he used to say that to me and that would be my response.

I turned and walked away; I was seventeen then. Now, I’m twenty-four and I still don’t look back. 

“Well, does he know why you’re not talking to him” I could tell she was saddened.

“No, I just don’t feel he deserves an explanation, I did though, write him a letter telling him he ruined our family”

“And what happened?” she was about to hop out of her seat.

“Return to sender, the fucker skipped town.” I played with my hands and fidgeted before asking her what I had been itching to.

“As a journalist, do you feel obligated to show emotional attachment to the stories you hear, or is it part of the job; to get the story no matter what the cause.”

She snapped her journal shut as she stood over me. 

“My emotional attachment is my job, without it I have no passion and no purpose. But tell me do you lose sleep at night knowing that your father is the happiest he could be with you right now because he doesn’t know he’s faulted you or even that you’re upset” she stared at me for a while before turning and walking away.

She was right, I was hurting and he was living the dream. My dad was not the man I thought he was and it was time I’d let him know it.