You’re My Hero, Dad

“You’re really going out like that?” Dad’s voice comes from behind me—half teasing, half worried. I freeze, lipstick hovering above my mouth, my reflection in the mirror framed by a dress I’ve been saving for months. I turn, rolling my eyes, but my chest feels tight.

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” I challenge, smoothing the fabric over my hips. My heart hammers. It’s the first time I’ve gone out since Mom left.

He shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “Nothing, Ellie. You look… grown up.”

I know what he means. He’s afraid. So am I. I’m seventeen, but tonight is my best friend’s graduation party, and I want—no, need—to feel normal. I want to forget about Mom’s absence, the way the house feels empty, the way Dad has been drinking more, talking less.

He tries to smile but his eyes are tired, rimmed red from too many late nights and too little hope. “You know I worry about you, right?”

I nod, letting the silence stretch. I’m not sure what to say anymore. Every conversation feels like walking on eggshells.

“Don’t wait up,” I say quietly, grabbing my purse. I know it will hurt him, but I need to breathe.

The summer air outside is thick with humidity and the scent of cut grass. I climb into my friend Jessica’s car, where music thumps and laughter spills out. For a few hours, I let myself forget. I dance, I laugh, I pretend. But around midnight, my phone buzzes. One missed call from Dad. I shove the phone in my bag, guilt gnawing at me. I just want one night.

When I get home, the living room lamp casts a weak yellow glow. Dad’s asleep on the couch. The TV flickers, half-empty bottle of bourbon on the coffee table. I tiptoe past, but he stirs.

“Ellie?” he slurs, blinking up at me. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, Dad.” My voice is small. I want to hug him, but I’m angry, too. Why can’t he hold it together for me?

He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “I was just… worried. Couldn’t sleep.”

I know the truth. He’s been like this since Mom left two months ago. She couldn’t take it anymore—his drinking, the endless arguments. She called me her hero for staying, but some days I think I’m just a coward, afraid to leave him alone.

“I’m fine.” I head upstairs, shutting my door. The tears come hot and fast. I lost my mother, but I’m losing my father, too.

The days blur. Dad’s job at the hardware store is barely enough. I get a part-time job at the diner, the same one my friends call “the greasy spoon.” I lie to everyone—“Dad’s doing better,” “Mom just needed space.” At night, I hear him crying in his room. Once, I find him in the bathroom, staring at a bottle of pills. He pretends he’s fine, but I see the truth.

One afternoon, he tries to make pancakes. The kitchen fills with smoke, the fire alarm shrieking. I run in, heart pounding. He’s standing there, lost, spatula in hand, tears streaking down his face.

“I can’t do this, Ellie,” he whispers. “I’m not your hero. I’m not even a good dad.”

I don’t know what to say. I want to scream at him, to shake him, to make him see how much I need him. Instead, I hug him, hard. “You’re still my dad. That’s all I need.”

He sobs into my shoulder, and I realize I’ve never seen him so broken. I wish Mom would call, but she doesn’t. I wish I could fix him, but I can’t. I just hold on, hoping it’s enough.

School starts again. I juggle classes, work, and caring for Dad. My grades slip. Jessica notices the bruises under my eyes. “You okay, El?” she asks.

I lie. “Just tired.”

One night, Dad doesn’t come home. Panic claws at my chest. I call his phone, no answer. I drive to the bar where I know he goes, praying he’s there. I find him in the parking lot, slumped over the steering wheel, sobbing.

“Dad, please,” I beg, tears streaming down my face. “You have to stop.”

He looks at me, eyes glazed, and for the first time, I see how scared he is. “I don’t know how,” he whispers.

That’s when I make the call, hands shaking. I dial Aunt Lisa, the one who always said she’d help. She comes, hugs Dad, and together we convince him to check into rehab.

The house is quieter without him, but also lighter. I can breathe. I go to meetings for family members, where I meet others who understand. I write letters to Dad, telling him I love him, that I’m proud of him for trying.

Months pass. Dad comes home, thinner, older, but sober. He cooks me pancakes—burnt, but edible. We laugh. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.

One evening, as we sit on the porch, Dad squeezes my hand. “You saved me, Ellie. You’re my hero.”

I shake my head, tears in my eyes. “No, Dad. You saved yourself.”

Now, years later, I still think about those nights. About the weight of loving someone who’s hurting. About forgiveness, and how it’s not about forgetting, but moving forward together.

Sometimes I wonder—how many families out there are holding each other together in silence? How do we find the strength to keep loving, even when it hurts?