The Hero

Image via WikipediaMy father is a man of many faces. When I was a boy, I looked up to him like any boy would to their hero. It never really fazed me when my parents filed for divorce, it just gave my father more of a hero presence; flew in from a hidden far-away place to save the day.
My mother stood as the villain in my eyes. He divorce had left her in a morose and cold depression, with only a seven-year-old boy to find any solace in. She saw that I loved my father. She saw me running to the ringing phone to tell him about my day. He’d tell me that he’s “on the road,” but he’d come see me the next chance he could.
I always thought that he was living in a serene beach, smoking his pipe in one hand and fishing with the other.
One night, after a quick conversation with my father, my mother was sitting in my room wearing a smirk.
“You think your father is living in some mansion, or something?” she asked.
“No…” I knew what she was like when she got like this, and I knew there was nothing I could do but stay quiet.
“Well, HE’S NOT! HE’S LIVING IN HIS CAR IN SOME EMPTY PARKING LOT! THAT’S WHERE YOUR FATHER IS! THAT’S WHERE YOU’LL BE TOO IF-“
I slammed the door shut and climbed out of my window. It was just part of the routine, she’d go crazy and I’d go to the park.
I felt that life had tilted slightly, and the comic book atmosphere was leading into another dramatic plot. In all of it, the only truth I knew was that I just missed my dad.