My mom has systemic lupus, and every so often — especially when we were younger — she’d have flare-ups bad enough to put her in the hospital for about a week. It was frightening, but as a kid I didn’t really understand what was going on. I just knew that when she wasn’t home, everything felt unstable.
The first time it happened, I was around ten.
Mom was admitted, and suddenly my dad was trying to manage everything on his own. That afternoon he told us to go outside and play while he “made dinner.” His voice was firm — almost too firm — like he was forcing himself to stay calm.
About an hour later, he came outside, cleared his throat, and announced, “We’re going to Burger King.”
As a kid, I thought that sounded great. We ate, came home, and he sent us straight to bed — no usual routine, no chatting, just… bedtime.
Later that night, I got thirsty and quietly got up to grab some water. And that’s when I saw it.
The kitchen was a complete wreck.
Flour was scattered everywhere — across the counters, the floor, even smeared on the cabinets. A pan sat on the stove with something burned so badly I couldn’t even tell what it had been. The sink was overflowing with bowls and pots, like he’d tried to cook five different things at once and failed at all of them. The fridge door was left hanging open. And on the floor was a sticky blob of what looked like jelly… with a footprint right through it.
I just stood there, stunned, realizing my dad had tried so hard to make dinner — and it had completely fallen apart.
As I crept back toward my room, I passed my parents’ bedroom. The door was mostly closed, but I could hear him.
He was crying.
Not loud sobbing — more like quiet, shattered crying, the kind someone does when they think nobody can hear. I froze in the hallway because I had never heard my dad cry before. In my child’s mind, dads were supposed to be unbreakable. Strong. In control.
That night I learned something I never forgot: dads can cry too.
And sometimes Burger King isn’t a treat — it’s survival.
