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I don’t really understand what “hero” means.
Everyone keeps saying it like it’s supposed to make something better.
“He was a hero, Keith.”
“A very brave man.”
“He saved people.”
They all say it like that—soft voices, careful smiles. Like I might break if they say it wrong.
I think I already did.
I’m sitting in a chair that’s too big for me, my feet not touching the ground. They swing a little when I forget to keep them still. The room smells weird, like paper and something old.
My hands are sticky. I don’t remember why.
“Do you understand?” the lady asks.
I nod.
I don’t.
All I know is that my dad isn’t coming back.
Not later. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
They don’t say it like that, but I hear it anyway.
Gone.
Dead.
Hero.
I think I liked “dad” better.
____________________
The first night in a new house is the worst.
It’s always quiet in a way that doesn’t feel right. Different walls. Different sounds. Different everything.
I keep waiting for something familiar, but nothing ever is.
“Your room is right here,” the lady says.
She smiles a lot. Too much.
I nod again, because that’s what I’m supposed to do.
The bed is soft. Softer than the one I remember. The blanket smells like flowers, and I don’t like it.
“Do you need anything?” she asks.
I almost say yes.
I almost say, I need my dad.
But I don’t think she can get that.
So I shake my head.
“No.”
She hesitates, then turns off the light.
The door clicks shut.
And I’m alone.
______________________
I try to remember his face.
I squeeze my eyes shut, like that will help, like it’ll make the picture clearer.
I remember his jacket. Heavy. It smelled like smoke sometimes, but not in a bad way.
I remember his laugh. Loud. It made me laugh too, even if I didn’t know why.
I remember his hands.
But his face—
It’s fuzzy.
Like when you try to look at something too far away.
“Don’t forget,” I whisper to myself, like it’s a rule I can follow.
But I think I already am.
And that scares me more than anything.
______________
They move me again after a while.
And then again.
Different houses. Different people.
Some are nice.
Some aren’t.
Some try too hard, like if they’re extra kind it’ll fix something.
It doesn’t.
“Do you want to talk about your father?” someone asks once.
I shrug.
“He was a hero.”
They smile like that’s the right answer.
I say it again later, to someone else.
“My dad was a hero.”
The words feel strange in my mouth.
Too big.
Too heavy.
Like they don’t belong to me.
___________
Sometimes, at night, I pretend.
I pretend he’s just at work.
That he’s going to come back and knock on the door and everything will go back to how it’s supposed to be.
I imagine what I’ll say.
“Hi, Dad.”
No.
That’s too normal.
“I waited.”
No.
That sounds weird.
“I missed you.”
…
I don’t know if I’ve ever said that out loud before.
___________________
One night, I wake up because I think I hear something.
Footsteps.
My heart starts beating really fast.
I sit up, staring at the door.
This is it.
This is the time he comes back.
I know it.
I just know it.
The handle doesn’t move.
The footsteps go away.
The house is quiet again.
I lie back down slowly, staring at the ceiling.
“Oh,” I say.
Just that.
Nothing else comes out.
_________________
At some point, I stop asking when he’s coming back.
People stop telling me he’s a hero, too.
Or maybe I just stop listening.
It’s easier that way.
Easier to pretend it doesn’t matter.
Easier to act like I don’t care.
Because if I care, then it hurts.
And if it hurts, then it means he’s really gone.
Not at work.
Not coming back.
Just—
gone.
_________________
Sometimes I still think I hear him.
A laugh in the wrong place.
A voice that almost sounds like his.
I turn my head too fast, like I might catch it.
But I never do.
I don’t cry.
Not anymore.
I just sit there, really still, like if I move too much the feeling will disappear.
Like him.
_________________
My dad was a hero.
That’s what they say.
I don’t know if that’s true.
I don’t know what a hero is supposed to feel like.
All I know is that heroes don’t come home.
And I think I would’ve liked it better if he did.