It was then that my adopted son Carl started inquiring about his real father. I was appalled. Was I not enough for him? That morning he tipped his cowboy hat with his typical "m'lady" and ate his pudding for breakfast. I sat Lucille in her chair next to mine, stroking her gently. That was when Carl began his sass.
"Dad, can I ask you a question?" he asked politely.
I smiled kindly, being the father I am. Carl could ask me anything. I was his adopted father, after all. I stroked my graying stubble, chuckling. "Sure, son," I chuckled.
"Who's my real dad?" he asked.
The question hit me like Lucille. Ouch. Now I know how Glenn and that other guy felt. "Hehe, I'm your real dad," I laughed politely.
"Dad, my mom isn't a baseball bat," the edgy teenager replied.
I pounded my fist on the table, irritated. "Don't you speak about your mother like that! Go to your room!" I yelled.
Carl slouched in his chair. I could tell how depressed he was. My heart ached for the little teen. "I-I'm sorry, kind one. I got a little carried away," I admitted, eating my breakfast spaghetti.
"Dad, I want the truth," he insisted.
Being the literary genius I am, I thought of a poetic way to tell him. "Your real dad was a man of bravery and kindness. He was truly a good being until the end. It is up to you to carry out his image," I finally responded.
He blinked, emotional. "Dad, why didn't you ever tell me this before?" he wondered, a tear appearing in his one remaining eye.
"I'm sorry son. It's just...I wanted you to believe in me as your real hero," I confessed.
"It's okay," he replied. But little did I know, that was only the beginning of his rebellion.
