And The Silver Spoon
You are Michael Simmons. You are 45.
Five years ago, you learned the identity of one of Manhattan's most notorious vigilantes and discovered your son under the mask.
You fall to your knees at his grave. The one you find yourself wandering to blindly at least once a day, a shell of the man you were before.
Decisions, decisions. If only you could take back your decisions.
Planes crash. Children lose mothers. Superheroes die. Sons leave for the day and never come back again.
You aren't sure if any decision you made would've changed anything in the end. That maybe you're just a magnet for heartbreak and tragedy.
Excuses, unbeknownst to you, for not having the wherewithal to make the right calls the first time around. The only time around.
He's buried beside his mother in Pennsylvania. You moved there shortly after his death to stay near him and keep him with his mother.
Sometimes, you argue with the universe. You reason that you didn't want this. You didn't ask for a son. This was forced upon you by reason of death. This wasn't your plan.
Mary's lingering spirit reminds you that she didn't choose this either.
She didn't get to choose not to die in a plane crash. But more importantly, she probably didn't want to have a kid all those years ago, either. Maybe she didn't ask for a son. Maybe this wasn't her plan, either.
Helpless, hopeless, and bereaved, you lay down on Theo's grave, your face pressed into the dirt.
You are Michael Simmons. Your son Theo is dead. His mother Mary is dead, too.
You are alone.