The doorbell rings, but it does not awaken me - for I am already awake. I have not yet felt the urge to get out of bed. Truth be told, this is a struggle for me on most days. Getting out of bed means stepping into the real world, which is something I would prefer not doing, for a number of reasons. But, you can't always have things your way, though I rarely do at all. Outside the Minneapolis sky is heavy and gray. It's been pouring for days now, but finally there seems to be a break from the rain. I suspect it will return soon, though. I reach for the nightstand, grabbing the bottle of finnish cloudberry liqueur standing there. I help myself to a generous serving. It feels nice. The doorbell rings once again.

I open the door; there is a package delivery. The courier is a young man carrying a cardboard box.
- "Delivery for a mr. Jamie Langston", he says.
- "That's me", I reply, because I am.
I sign off the delivery and head back inside. My house is a mess. It is December 28th, and the spirit of Christmas is already beginning to waver. Not that there ever was much of a Christmas spirit around here to begin with.

I knock on the door to my daughter Amy's room.
- "Dad?", she says.
I open the door and enter.
- "Your Christmas present arrived", I tell her. "I am sorry it didn't get here in time".
From her glassy eyes, and the red rings surrounding them, I can tell she's been crying. To be honest, I've heard her sobbing for some time. Whether her crying is due to the absence of presents on Christmas day, or whether it's due to recurring memories of the previous Christmas, where her mother, my beloved wife, chose to leave this world - I cannot say. And I cannot bring myself to ask her either. It is easier for the both of us to suppress those feelings. She'll be fine, eventually, I hope.

I hand her the box. She looks confused, yet a spark of enthusiasm lits up her eyes as she begins to open it. Sadly, the spark soon vanishes.
- "What is this?", she asks, pulling out an action figure she apparently is not familiar with.
- "It's a Turbo Man", I explain. "It is a vintage original, still sealed, mint condition. When I was about your age, my father worked very hard to get me a similar one, and it meant the world to me. I found this one on eBay recently and it cost me a fortune."
She does not seem impressed.
- "But… I wanted kitten", she says, and starts crying again. Although her crying is silent this time, the tears are very much visible. I feel sad for her, and I feel that I should better leave her alone, so I do precisely that.

As I head back to bed, I replay our conversation in my head. I am plagued with a burning question: what does it really mean to be a good father? Or, more importantly: am I a good father? I find this very hard to answer. First of all, I must admit that I might not be the best father there ever was. Still, am I not trying my very best? Am I not doing everything in my power to provide a happy environment for my child? After all, fatherhood is hard. And things haven't been easy for me either, I'll tell you that much. I am doing the best I can. And is not that precisely what it means to be a good father? So, in that sense, I would say: yes, I am a good father. But am I really trying my very best though? Maybe I could do better. Who knows. I help myself to some more delicious cloudberry liqueur. The Finnish surely know what they are doing.

A few hours later, I enter her room again. She has fallen asleep crying. A part of me feels sorry for her. I pick up the Turbo Man and study it. She has not even opened the box. Her disappointment seems to have been substantial. Truth be told, when I ordered it, parts of me kind of wanted the doll for myself. At least we could share it. Maybe like a 50-50 ownership between the two of us. Or maybe more like 70-30, in my favor. I curl up in a fetal position, sucking my thumb, clutching the box close to my chest, close to my heart. This is not a conscious act, at least I don't think it is. I reminisce over my father, whom I've resented for so many years now. Granted, he did provide a very special day for me, that Christmas all those years ago. But soon thereafter, he would once again return to his old ways of absence and abandonment. There are many examples of this pattern, but perhaps the most devastating time he stood me up, was when I got the green belt. At the time, I really had my hopes up that he actually had changed. Before I got to the black belt, I had quit Karate. The prospect of yet another - very likely - disappointment, was too much for me to handle.

Eventually he also drove away my dear mother Liz, into the arms of our more-than-willing neighbour Ted. Turns out Ted had a violent temper, a wretched need for control, and a knack for manipulation and extortion. To this day, their relationship seems very much destructive and dysfunctional, and I suspect she feels trapped. I have desperately tried talking to her on numerous occasions, but to no avail. I have urged her to break free, to seek some sort of help, or at least to talk to me for support. But it seems she has resigned, and stoically accepted her dismal fate. I feel utterly powerless. She prefers seeking solace in booze and prescription drugs. She once told me, "when I die, it will be to everyone's benefit". I could not think of a proper response at the time (I was ten years old).

When my parents split up, Dad got an apartment where he has lived ever since. We eventually lost contact entirely. Truth be told, I hardly ever think of him. That is, I didn't until recently, when I received a call from Abbott Northwestern Hospital, where he apparently has been admitted. Turns out he has contracted a severe case of pancreatitis, and that he may not have much time left. According to the nurse on the phone, his illness is probably lifestyle related. Her words echo in my head, as I lay on my daughter's floor, still curled up, now crying. I examine my feelings of anger, resentment, hatred and continuous disappointment towards him - but underneath all those layers, I am struck with a sense of love and compassion for him too. He was, and still is, my father, after all. I consider how much effort he actually put into my wellbeing, on those few occasions where he bothered doing so. I am struck with grief. I feel a strong urge to display my feelings of love for him, before it's too late. I have not expressed any such feelings for him since I was a child - and I hardly ever did it back then. It would probably make him very happy if I told him that he actually meant something to someone. I decide to visit him at the hospital tomorrow.

But first, I realize that I need to pull myself together. After all, if Amy really wants a kitten for Christmas, she should have one. She deserves a little joy in her life, after what seems like an eternity of bottomless despair. In her tiny little heart, there's been flowing an endless river of grief, ever since that fateful day about a year ago. Her sorrow is as deep as the darkest abyss; her misery knows no bounds, and yet, it continues to grow. This I can tell from looking in her eyes. She also told me. And I listened. So, if there is anyone who deserves a cheering up, it is her. And if there is anyone who should provide this for her, it is me. I am, after all, her father, and sole caregiver. A kitten is what she shall have. No matter what.

For a brief moment, I am struck with a sense of panic: how do I get a kitten in time for Christmas? Aren't they in extreme demand these days? Thankfully, I remember that Christmas is already over, and that kittens are pretty easy to get a hold of. No pressure. I am relieved. I turn on my computer and check Craigslist. Turns out there are lots of people nearby with kittens to spare. Among them is a man who is looking for a home for Snoozles, perhaps the most adorable kitten in the history of kittens. From the picture, I can tell from Snoozles' large, blue eyes that he craves for my loving care, or perhaps more to the point, the loving care of a loving, caring little girl. I message the seller, and he replies almost immediately. I arrange to meet him (and Snoozles) tomorrow, after I've visited my Dad at the hospital.

I go back to bed once again, where I will spend the rest of the day. I wonder: what will it be like, to reunite with my father, after all these years? Will he even remember me? At one point, he was my hero - but over the relentless passage of time, he faded into something much smaller, something weaker, something hardly worthy of my pity, or anyone else's pity for that matter. And I know that he knows this as well. Will my sudden presence be too much for him? Am I a living reminder of his failures as a father, of his ineptitude as a human being? Be that as it may, I feel I owe it to him to express my love and gratitude. I strongly feel that it would do him good. And to be honest, it might just feel good for me too.

That night, I cry myself to sleep.

I wake up crying. Have I even slept? I do not know. I am not sure if I have experienced a nightmare, or if it was just my own waking thoughts the whole time. Nonetheless, I get up. Amy is already awake (I can tell from the sound of crying). I drink a glass of lukewarm water for breakfast, and make my way to the hospital. I decide to walk there, since I don't have a car, and I really cannot afford any form of transportation at this point (the Turbo Man doll did, like I said, cost me a fortune). I realize that my decision to walk isn't really much of a decision, but rather me opting for the only available option. Still, the feeling of ownership towards my own agency is comforting me, although I realize it's a mere illusion. I try my best to suppress this realization. I cry some more.

A few hours later, I arrive at the hospital. As I walk towards the entrance, I feel nervous - I don't know what to expect. Thankfully, the receptionist looks kind, which makes me feel more at ease. I approach her, and I ask where I can find Howard Langston.
- "Where can I find Howard Langston?", I ask. "I am his son".
The receptionist tells me what unit he is in. It is the intensive care unit for the terminally ill. I make my way to the elevator and push the required button. As the elevator rises, I realize that I forgot to make breakfast for Amy. Oh well, she'll be fine. There is plenty of lukewarm water in the sink, and she knows it.

As I enter the unit where my father resides, I walk up to a nurse.
- "Where can I find Howard Langston?", I ask, just like I had asked the receptionist downstairs. "I am his son".
The nurse looks at me with a sad expression. I can tell that he has bad news for me.
- "Oh… I am very sorry to say, your father just passed away", he says.
I am dumbfounded. My heart drops to the floor. I feel a sense of sorrow more profound than I ever thought possible.
- "Wh-what..?", I stutter.
- "Yes, I am very sorry. He died crying. Actually, never in my life have I ever seen any human being cry as profusely as he did. It was rivers upon rivers of tears. Although he was suffering from a terminal illness, I'd say that the real cause of death was grief."
I am at a loss.
- "Did… did he say anything?", I ask, after a pause.
- "I believe his final words were: 'Why am I unloved? If only Jamie was here…'. It was all very sad, really".
I am speechless. I think to myself: Goodbye, Dad. I love you. Always have, and I always will. If only he had known. Goodbye forever, my beloved hero.

Back outside, I call my mother to bring her the news. Ted answers the phone. He sounds happy.
- "I have some bad news for you, kiddo", he says. "Your mother passed away this morning. Turns out she had a severe case of pancreatitis, which was undiscovered. That is, she did suspect that something may have been wrong, but we, or at least I, felt that it would be too much trouble to seek medical help. Whoopsies!"
Once again I am dumbfounded.
- "Wh-what..?", I stutter, for the second time today.
He hangs up.

Dead. My father and my mother are dead. On the same day. I feel as if the ground has been ripped away underneath me, only to unveil a black void of pain and nothingness. My heart succumbs to the blackness. Now what? Perplexed and overwhelmed, I somehow decide to make my way to where that guy from Craigslist lives. I am, after all, my father's son, and like him I will do everything in my power to make my kid happy, even if it's only occasionally. Also, it might keep my troubled mind occupied.

On my way there, my entire body is gradually covered in my tears; outside it is freezing. The tears covering my body have frozen. I am therefore very cold. I ring the doorbell, and I am greeted by an old man with intensely white hair. He invites me to come inside.
- "Things have been very lonely around here, ever since my wife died from pancreatitis", he says. "I sure appreciate some company". He explains that ever since he retired from being a police officer, he has spent his days breeding kittens. "It's a quiet life", he continues, "at work I had all sorts of mishaps happen to me". Sadly, he does not have much longer left to live, as he is terminally ill. Although I am sorry to hear this, I appreciate that he sees me as someone to safely confine in. You are safe with me, officer.
- "This is Snoozles", he says, picking up and lifting the adorable little thing into his arms for a hug. "I hope he finds a happy home with you and your family". I assure him that this is the case. I pay him and leave, but not before I have given him a long, sobbing hug. I feel almost as if he is my father now. Turns out, the old man would die from pancreatitis the following morning.

Back home, I leave Snoozles at our house. It is still a mess.
- "You're in charge now, Snoozles", I say, and head back outside again. Turns out Snoozles, too, was suffering from a severe case of pancreatitis. He would experience a slow and agonizing death over the next few weeks.

Turns out humans can contract pancreatitis from animals too, which is something I wouldn't really think possible. Nonetheless, Amy got it from Snoozles, and her death would turn out to be even more slow and agonizing.

Of this, however, I am unaware, as I make my way to my father's apartment. I was urged by the nurse to go there and pick out some clothes for Dad for the funeral. His apartment is located in a seedy district of town, but I am not afraid to go there. Nothing matters to me anymore. Come robbers or murderers - ye could do me no harm, for I am already dead inside. The door is open, and I enter. His roommate Myron is nowhere to be seen, so I guess he is not home. I may be wrong though, as he may very well lay hidden somewhere, beneath the plethora of empty bottles that floods the living room. I doubt it, but I cannot say for sure. (What I didn't know however, is that Myron actually did lay underneath the ocean of empty bottles, dead. He too had cried himself to death recently, after learning that he himself was terminally ill. What illness he had contracted, I can only guess.)

I enter my father's bedroom and head towards his closet. When going through his suits, I discover something hidden in the back. It is a full-sized metal armor, one which I recognize immediately. It shines of red and gold, and I am reminded of that fateful day, all those years ago, when he wore it. How nice that he got to keep the outfit. I think to myself: It's turbo time.

I suit up. A stroke of luck: the nitro fuel tank is full. The rain has returned. I aim for the sky, and set off. I will go as far as the fuel can carry me, way above and beyond the earth's atmosphere. Luckily, I cry myself to death before suffocating. I spend the remainder of eternity orbiting the earth.