Chapter 3

“Euphemia”

Growing up, I idolized my dad. He was a giant, like, really, a giant, like the Incredible Hulk, but with a beiger skin tone.

That’s always who he reminded me of. The Incredible Hulk.

But unlike the Hulk, he’d never shrink to a normal human. He was big and bulky all the time. And angry. I’d see him rage, his face full of damnation, and he’d yell and throw things and break stuff around the house after he lost a big game.

My little brother likened him to Frankenstein. And yeah, he’d kinda remind me of Frankenstein, those times he was so mad. He was so big and tall and angry and limping and there’s tons of scars on his body from football and surgeries. He could be pretty scary. I loved him and admired him, but, truth is, I’ve always sorta been afraid of him. I remember running, my heart thumping, and diving into bed, hiding under my blankets, those times he was mad. He really was like a monster from a horror movie or something.

I think he was shooting steroids or HGH, or whatever those football guys use. Once I walked by my parents’ room, at age 10 or so, and saw him bending over, in front of a full-length mirror, injecting something into his, uh, rear end...

That was when my idea, concept of him changed. That muggy late summer afternoon, with the cicadas roaring in a collective buzz, and the sun spilling in, its yellowish glow illuminating my parents’ room like a box of jewels. Walking by, seeing my Hulk dad bending over like that, sticking a syringe in his ... After that, like, I knew, he was just a guy. He was a human. He wasn’t invincible. He wasn’t Frankenstein and wasn’t really as scary after that either.

Not that I saw a lot of him, though, growing up. He’d mostly be gone, at practice, traveling for games, doing press, doing whatever he was doing. Sure, I’d have liked it if he were around more, but I can’t complain too much. I grew up in a house that was almost as big as my school. We had a moat in the front yard. A moat with fish!

I’d read children’s stories, thinking, how the princess in the story, living in her castle, was just like me. I’m a princess, yeah, I know. I won the genetic lottery, being born into a rich family. People hate trust fund kids, rich kids, but most people would do the same thing for their kids, and my dad gave his blood, sweat, and tears for every red cent he provided our family. Every Christmas present, every bite of food came from his hard work. I don’t know why anyone has a problem with it. It’s not like it’s their business anyway.

Why do people like to count other’s money? Like, I once saw a website devoted to celebrities’ net worth. I’ve seen people in heated arguments online about who earns more money, Beyonce or Jay Z ... Why would anyone care? I don’t understand it.

And no, I don’t feel bad or guilty about how I grew up. I offer no apologies. I am proud of what my dad accomplished.

But, I guess the haters will be happier now, right? Now that we’re not so rich anymore. Misery loves company. Poverty too perhaps?