When I was little, my dad was my hero. He'd come home from work, and swing me up onto his big shoulders. My dinosaurs would be left in a circle around where I had been.

"Be careful, Eli," my mom would cry, but it was like he didn't hear her. I would hover in midair, like a gymnast. My daddy was the strongest man in the world, and I knew he would never drop me. I trusted him, implicitly.

He would sometimes take me out with him when my mom was working. My dad would dress me up in jeans and t-shirts that said things like, "If you think I'm cute, you should see my dad." I would run around the bars or concert halls, my dad gliding behind me like a shark.

We would come home after those nights, reeking of smoke of booze and cheap perfume. He would give me a bath, and tuck me into bed, between my sheets with the T-Rexes and Velosa Raptors. Then, he would sing to me, his voice rough from years of smoking and drinking.

My mom never knew. She would find me asleep in my bed, Dad waiting up. He seemed like the perfect boyfriend: attentive, handsome, charismatic. Of course, he was responsible for her fall from grace, but not even Eli Puckerman was perfect. I knew she tried not to resent him for what had happened, but I could hear it in her voice when she talked about her life before me. Mom was a senior in high school, the saluditorian of her graduating class. She had a scholarship to a good school, and she was going to be a doctor. Then, Eli Puckerman got her pregnant. She gave up on college, and went to live with the father of her child. After all, if he could love her, he could take care of her.

It didn't last long. Even from a young age, I knew my parents fought. But, I thought that was normal. They would argue about money, of course, and about my dad's nights out. Mom knew Dad liked to party, but she never knew that he took me along. Sometimes, they argued about Mom's dreams, about how she should have been a doctor. They yelled constantly about getting married. My mom wanted Dad to settle down, but he would tell her that you couldn't tie down a Puckerman, he was a sex shark. Sometimes, my dad would yell at her for no reason, or because he was drinking.

Afterward, she would have accidents. I would wait for the sound of fists hitting the walls, or the crack of a belt. Mom might have a black eye, because she "fell down the stairs" or "tripped over one of my toys". I always thought she was clumsy.

I was safe. My daddy was my hero, and I had my dinosaurs. I was so naïve.