Empty Nest Dad

8

Dad spent two decades raising three kids, his life a rotation of carpools, packed lunches, and late-night science projects spread across the kitchen table. He coached little league, taught you how to ride a bike, and kept the old minivan running even when it should have been junked years ago. Mom was the steady heart of the house, always reminding him to slow down, to savor the small moments. Together, they built a home that felt unshakable. But when Mom passed, the center gave out. He threw himself into holding the family together, cooking half-burnt dinners, stumbling through birthdays, showing up to every game and recital so you’d never feel her absence more than you already did. Now the kids are grown, scattered into lives of their own, and the house is a shell of its old self—quiet rooms, stripped-down furniture, boxes of collectibles you left behind stacked in corners like echoes of another time. Instead of drowning in the emptiness, Dad makes a choice. He clears out what’s left, sells the minivan, and does something no one saw coming...

Concert Mom

26

You thought it’d be wholesome. A nice bonding thing. One ticket for you, one for your mom, to see a band you liked—something edgy but not too edgy. She was thrilled. Said she loved “live music” and pulled out her old denim jacket from the back of the closet. You should’ve been suspicious when she cracked open two cans of beer in the parking lot and called it “getting into the spirit.” You should’ve left when she tied her hoodie around her waist like a teenager and said, “Let’s get close to the front.” But you didn’t. You were trying to be a good kid. Now, you’re three songs in, halfway back in the crowd, and your mom—your actual mother—is somehow up front, surfing the sea of hands like she’s a seasoned pro. She’s holding her phone like a torch, recording like she’s starring in her own rock documentary. Her denim jacket flares open like a cape. She’s screaming lyrics to songs you didn’t know she knew, and the lead singer just shouted her out with, “HELL YEAH, MOMMA!” You try to shrink into the crowd. You fail. “Is that your mom?” someone asks. You can feel your face burn. You nod, slowly, like you’re admitting to a crime. And then she yells it—over the pounding drums and blaring guitars: “I haven’t felt this alive since the Spin Doctors tour of ’93!” Oh no. She’s doing high kicks. High kicks. In a crowded concert. Like she’s in a workout video. But the crowd is eating it up. Someone hands her a drink. Another person lifts her up. Your mom. Is on stage. This is your life now. The crowd’s going wild. She’s going wild. You—on the other hand—are slowly dying inside. You want to melt into the floor, to become invisible. But instead, all you can do is hope that by some miracle, the ground opens up and swallows you whole This is only halfway through the concert. You have no idea how much more you can take.

Siggi Knopp

16

Bright lights. Fog machines. A screaming guitar solo. Center stage at the Kleckersdorfer Krug, Siggi Knopp stands tall in leather and full Kiss makeup, fist clenched around the mic. The crowd (a dozen locals and Aunt Ingrid) goes wild. Fireworks blaze on the screen behind him as Siggi und die Marsianer give it their all. As the last chord fades, Siggi leans toward the mic, breathless: "Thank you, Kleckersdorf! You rocked my world!" Backstage, he pulls out his phone. "Carina, sweetheart - yeah, I’ll pick up the organic eggs. And the milk. I’m on my way. Kiss-kiss." A rock god in dreams. A dad in real life. Welcome to Siggi’s world.

Trash-Talking Pops

7

He never said he was disappointed. Not outright. But the day you announced you were going to Aksum University—proud home of the blue-and-black Solstice—your father went quiet for a full minute. No yelling. No hugging. Just slowly removed his Hank State Nebula cap, stared at it like it failed him, and muttered to Mom, “We raised a stranger.” From then on, everything shifted. Family photos? You in blue, Pop in green, standing on opposite ends like a divorce. Thanksgiving? Gravy boat passed with a side of, “Guess even your dinner rolls collapse under pressure like your secondary.” He renamed your contact in his phone to “Defector (Aksum Traitor).” And the trash talk? Oh, it never stopped. “Hope you’re majoring in disappointment!” “You know the Solstice only exists because Hank needed someone to lap on the scoreboard.” “Blue and black? What are you, a bruise with tuition?” You learned to hit back. “At least Aksum doesn’t spike the ball on first down.” “Green and yellow? Bold choice—like a highlighter threw up.” “Your mascot looks like a sneeze in a helmet.” Still, every insult was wrapped in a smirk. He never missed a birthday. Never missed a family holiday. Just made sure you knew he was rooting for the other guys. Now, years later, you’ve graduated. Got a real job. Moved out. But nothing—and you mean nothing—prepared you for the Big Game. Hank vs. Aksum. In your stadium. And you and Pop? Sitting side by side, surrounded by screaming fans and the smell of burnt hot dogs. First half’s over. It’s tied. Time for a restroom break. Pop turns to you, green-and-yellow warpaint dripping from the heat, and goes: “Call it in, kid. Nebula by 14. You know it. I know it. That nacho vendor two rows down knows it.” You wipe mustard off your face. “Pop, your offense has less rhythm than your dancing at cousin Rachel’s wedding.”