You were sitting in your family room, with you six year old son, three month daughter, and your bubbly American husband. You had been married to Alfred for seven years, but been with him for way longer than that. You stared at your blond haired husband, studying him with you [e/c] eyes. Each time you looked at him, you felt like you found a new reason to love him.
Your daydream burst, when your six year old son climbed into your lap. He looked up at you with his big eyes. He had your [h/c] hair, but his father's beautiful blue eyes. You looked down at him, smiling, seeing he was about to say something.
"Mommy, why does Daddy say he's a hero?" Your son asked you, looking quite serious.
You laughed quietly, and looked back over to Alfred. He was playing with your three month old daughter, telling her he was the hero. "Oh, [son's name], do you really want to know?" You asked, looking back at your son. He was nodding in excitement.
"I would like to know too, sweetie." Said your blond American husband, who was now looking at you, with curiosity.
"Alright, then I will tell." You started out. "Well, your father is a hero for many reasons.
"He protects anyone in need, not even thinking about his own safety. He tries his hardest in whatever he does. He will never give up, not even if he was paid all the money in the world."
You paused for a moment. You thought back to when America was your hero. It brought a smile to your face.
You were seventeen years old. You know Alfred for about five years now, and he was best friend, and boyfriend. You were living with your mother at the time, who only seemed nice. But you knew better not to judge a book by its cover. Your mother would beat you every night, calling you this and that. Blaming you for everything that happened in the house, even her own personal problems. She would scream at you saying you deserved no love, since you drove hers away. You didn't know if this was true or not. But your father did definitely leave when you were born. But you were only a baby, it couldn't have possibly been your fault.
One day, you went to school, a black eye from the night before, given to you by your mother. Alfred noticed, and asked you about it. You denied telling him the truth, but he saw through all your petty little lies. You had no choice to tell him the truth. He was your best friend after all, so he would understand.
After telling him about your mother, he walked off. You couldn't believe it. You thought he left you for good, disgusted by you like your mother. You stood there, tears welling in your [e/c] eyes. He was your best friend, and he walked off on you. You knew crying wasn't worth it. You knew everyone was going to leave you at one point. So it's best to get used to it. You wiped your eyes, and continued on with the rest of your day, still thinking of Alfred.
At the end of the day, the most dreaded part to you, you took your sweet time going home. You knew you would get into trouble for being late, but you knew you were going to be in trouble for something you have no idea about.
When you were about to cross the street, you felt big, strong arms go around your waist. Someone picked you up, and threw your over their shoulders. At first, you were terrified. But you quickly calmed down, taking in the scent of fast food.
As you were taken away from your home, Alfred told you everything.
He walked out on you to protect you. He went to go to the police, to tell them about your mother, about the abuse she would give you. He also told you that he wasn't at school for the rest of the day because he was packing your things. Since he was a year older than you, eighteen, he could legally adopt you, without you having to go to a foster home. He wasn't going to force you to call him father. But this was just until you turned eighteen.
You could feel tears form in your eyes. Not of sadness, but of happiness. About fifteen years of abuse, and it was going to go away in one day. You wished you could have said something to him earlier, but you weren't going to be too picky. It's better late than sooner.
~End of Flashback~
Still smiling, you put a strand of [h/c] hair behind your ear, and continued.
"And sometimes even when it seems like your father is doing something very silly, it's always for a good thing. He would do anything to make sure your safe. Even if that means he has to share his burgers with you." You could hear your American husband chuckle quietly.
"And he always is trying to make sure no one ever feels unloved, unsafe, unimportant, worthless, or anything bad. He wants everyone to be happy. To feel safe and loved. To make sure you feel wanted, and are needed on the Earth. That everyone has a purpose to be here, and not to be a pun-" You weren't going to finish the sentence, not wanting your son to ask more questions.
"And that is why your father is a hero." You finished off, smiling at your six year old son.
His eyes lit up, a big smile on his face. "So Daddy is like Superman?"
You nod, giggling. "Yes, exactly like Superman."
"Wow!" Your son exclaimed. He jumped off your lap, and ran over to his younger sister. "Did you hear that, [daughter's name]? Daddy is Superman!" You could hear your three month old giggling in happiness.
You leaned back on the couch, Alfred now sitting beside you. He kissed your cheek gently."And if I'm Superman, you're Lois Lane."
"I can live with that." You said simply, closing your eyes. Yep. This was your life. Your very simple, but very great life. You could ask for nothing more.