Chapter 1: What's Dad's Secret Superpower?

The June sun spilled through the garage window like melted butter, gilding the dented red frame of Leo’s bike, which lay sprawled on the concrete floor like a wounded dragon. Eight-year-old Leo squatted beside it, his chin pressed so hard to his knees his dimples showed, his sneakers scuffed from the crash he’d had the afternoon before, when he’d tried to cut across the neighbor’s lawn to beat his friend Mia to the new mountain bike trail at the park. The chain had popped off mid-sprint, the back tire had scraped raw against the curb, and the whole bike had crumpled under him like a broken toy. The plan for Saturday morning rides with Mia and the other kids from the cul-de-sac was officially ruined.

He prodded the loose chain with a stick, his throat tight. A tear slipped down his cheek and landed on the tire, making a tiny dark spot. The garage door creaked open just then, and Leo’s dad stepped out, his feet stuffed into the fuzzy green dinosaur slippers Leo had bought him for Christmas last year—slippers he refused to wear anywhere else, saying they made him feel like he was always on a “dinosaur adventure” with his son. He was still wearing the flour-dusted apron he’d used to make pancakes that morning, a half-empty mug of cold coffee in one hand, a smudge of blueberry jam on his cheek.

“Hey, bud,” he said, squatting down next to Leo without even glancing at the bike first. He wiped the tear off Leo’s cheek with his thumb, his voice soft. “What’s wrong? Did the trail fairies steal your bike?”

Leo sniffled, prodding the chain again. “It broke. I crashed it yesterday. We can’t go ride with Mia now.”

His

Leo’s dad chuckled, the sound warm and rumbly like the engine of his old pickup truck, and tapped the toe of his dinosaur slipper against the garage floor. “Trail fairies wouldn’t be that mean. They’d only steal the cookies you hide in your backpack for after school, not your bike. C’mere, let’s take a look.” He shifted the bike onto its kickstand, his hands—stained with a faint smudge of motor oil from fixing Leo’s toy dump truck the week before, and a tiny scar across his knuckle from the time he tried to build Leo a treehouse and slipped off the ladder—running along the bent chain like he was greeting an old friend. “Oh, this is an easy fix. Chain just popped off the gear, and the tire got a little scuffed when you hit the curb. No big deal.”

Leo sniffled, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his dinosaur hoodie. “Easy for you to say. You know how to fix everything. Last week Mia’s dad tried to fix her bike and he broke the brake even more.”

“Well, I’ve had a lot of practice.” Leo’s dad winked, pulling his beat-up red toolbox out from under the workbench. The metal box was covered in stickers Leo had drawn for him over the years: a wobbly blue T-Rex, a lopsided soccer ball, a stick figure of Leo holding a bike with the words “World’s Best Dad” scrawled in crayon. He flipped the latch open, and the sound of tiny plastic dinosaur toys and loose screws clinking together tumbled out. He rummaged for a second, then pulled out a small wrench with a dinosaur handle—Leo had painted it for him for Father’s Day two years prior, and he’d used it for every fix since. “You know, the first time I tried to fix a bike, I was 12, and I took my old Schwinn apart to add streamers to the handlebars. I put the chain on backward, and when I rode it, it made a noise like a duck being stepped on. My dad laughed so hard he snort-laughed soda out his nose.”

[Illustration: Close-up of the red toolbox covered in Leo’s hand-drawn stickers, the dinosaur wrench sitting on top of a pile of loose screws and tiny plastic dinosaurs, Leo’s dad’s scarred hand resting on the edge of the box.]

Leo snickered, leaning in to watch as his dad knelt down to loosen the bolt on the back wheel. “Did you ever break anything else when you were a kid?”

“Oh, tons.” He pried the loose chain off the gear, holding it up to the garage light. It was grimy, with a little bit of grass stuck in the links. “I broke my grandma’s favorite lamp when I was practicing soccer in the living room. I broke the kitchen window when I was trying to throw a frisbee to my dog. I even broke my first phone when I dropped it in the toilet at a baseball game.” He winked again, wiping the grass off the chain with his thumb. “But you know what? My dad never got mad. He just helped me fix it, or helped me pay for a new one by doing chores around the house for a month. He said breaking things is how you learn, as long as you’re careful and you fix what you break.”

Leo nodded, because that sounded like something his dad would say. Last month, Leo had accidentally broken his mom’s favorite ceramic mug when he was throwing a baseball in the kitchen, and his dad had helped him glue it back together with special epoxy, and then they’d painted flowers on the cracks to make it prettier than before. His mom had cried when she saw it, and said it was her favorite mug now.

His dad spent the next ten minutes tightening the chain back onto the gear, his movements slow and careful, like he was putting together a puzzle. Leo handed him tools when he asked for them, his small fingers wrapping around the dinosaur wrench to pass it over. “You know,” his dad said, pausing to wipe a smudge of grease off his cheek with the back of his hand, “the reason I’m good at fixing this stuff isn’t because I’m a superhero. It’s because I’ve been practicing for eight whole years, ever since you were born. First it was fixing your baby swing when the strap broke, then fixing your toy train when the wheels fell off, then fixing your bike when you crashed it last month. Every time I fix something for you, I get a little better.”

Leo frowned. “But you do other stuff too. Not just fix things.”

“What do you mean?”

Leo counted on his fingers, his voice getting faster as he listed them. “You make pancakes on Saturdays that look like dinosaurs. You helped me make my T-Rex helmet for the school play last month when the store-bought one broke. You sit with me when I do my math homework even when you’re tired from work. You let me put my cold feet on your back when we watch movies. You remember that I hate pickles on my hamburgers, even when I don’t tell you. You—” He stopped, suddenly shy, because he’d never thought about all the things his dad did before. “You do all that magic stuff, not just fix bikes.”

His dad smiled, the crinkles by his eyes getting deeper, and he reached over to ruffle Leo’s hair. “You’re right. That’s all part of the same magic. You know what scientists who study kids and families call that magic? *Father involvement*. That’s just a fancy way of saying ‘dad showing up’—showing up to help with homework, showing up to watch your soccer game even when it’s raining, showing up to make pancakes even when he’d rather sleep in, showing up to hug you when you’re sad, showing up to cheer the loudest when you do something cool.”

<sidebar> 📚 Dad’s Toolbox: What Is Father Involvement? Father involvement doesn’t mean your dad has to be a superhero who can fix anything, win every game of tag, or know the answer to every math problem. It just means he *shows up*—consistently, kindly, and with his whole heart. Studies from the University of Oxford and the U.S. National Institute of Child Health and Human Development have found that kids whose dads are involved in their daily lives grow up to be:

• 30% more likely to have high self-confidence
• 25% more likely to make friends easily
• 20% more likely to do well in school
• 40% more likely to try new things even when they’re scared

The magic isn’t in being perfect. It’s in being *there*. </sidebar>

Leo thought about that for a minute, twisting a loose screw between his fingers. “But Mom does all that stuff too. She makes me lunch every day, and she helps me with my spelling, and she reads me bedtime stories. Does she have superpowers too?”

“Of course she does!” His dad laughed, finally tight