My mom has systemic lupus, and every so often—especially when we were kids—she’d have flare-ups that landed her in the hospital for a week or so. It was scary, but back then I didn’t really understand what was happening. I only knew that when Mom wasn’t home, the whole world felt shaky.
The first time it happened, I was about 10.
Mom had been admitted, and my dad was suddenly trying to hold everything together by himself. That afternoon he told us to go outside and play while he “made dinner.” He sounded firm, almost too firm, like he was trying to keep his voice steady.
About an hour later, he came out, cleared his throat, and announced, “We’re going to Burger King.”
As a kid, that sounded like a win. We ate, came home, and he sent us straight to bed—no normal evening routine, no talking, just… bed.
Later that night I got thirsty and quietly slipped out to get some water. And that’s when I saw it.
The kitchen looked like a disaster zone.
Flour was everywhere—on the counter, on 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 was supposed to be. The sink was overflowing with bowls and pots like someone had tried to cook five different things at once and failed. The refrigerator door was hanging open. And on the floor, there was a sticky blob of what looked like jelly… with a footprint right through it.
I just stood there, confused and a little stunned, realizing my dad had tried so hard to make dinner—and it all completely fell apart.
As I tiptoed back to 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 the kind of quiet, broken crying someone does when they think nobody is listening. I froze in the hallway because I’d never heard my dad cry before. In my kid brain, dads were supposed to be unshakable. 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 a lifeline.
