Subhero

Even though it’s been two decades since I left, I still see him on the news. My kids don’t know that it’s grandpa up there who’s a famous superhero. Some things you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, let alone your own flesh and blood.

I was lucky—my parents divorced when they found out I wasn’t super anything, and I became the aftermath of their marriage. Neither one had the personality to be a side-kick, not even to the child they both professed to love. My mom left me at my grandma’s and moved to Tampa. I only found out years later she died in that huge fight down south. You know the one… When Orlando was destroyed.

And my dad—what to say about him? About once a year, he stopped by, eyes unfocused as if he were already somewhere else. Each visit, Grandma never seemed to say much. She just faded a bit more, became more frayed around the edges.

I still carry the guilt of the day I came home from high school and she was gone. Just disappeared right out of existence, worn out with the burden of her son. Only the feel of her lingered in the house—an acrid scent from the last remnants of her sorrow.

I’m a family man now, but I know my blood carries a ticking time bomb. If my kids are cursed with the superhero gene, I’ll take on the role my grandma did—I'll stand between. I'll be the buffer who protects them with my life.

And when I fade away, maybe she’ll be waiting for me, our job finally done. Maybe it’ll just be the two of us again—the only ones who know the real cost of what it takes to save the world.