Picture this: a lavish Halloween soirée hosted by my ever-affluent sister-in-law, Isla, decked with professionally carved pumpkins, fog machines, and a veritable village of skeletal décor. But the real drama? It was all centered around a dilemma of superhero proportions.
You see, my family of four—my husband Dan, our two boys, and I—proudly donned matching Superman costumes. It was a delightful little theme picked by my eldest, Tommy, who declared, “We could be the strongest family ever!” But, apparently, our enthusiasm didn’t sit well with Isla.
We arrived with a flutter of excitement, only for this moment to be thwarted by Isla in her designer Superwoman ensemble, her diamond-studded demeanor as glimmering as her jewelled bracelet. “What an unfortunate coincidence,” she quipped, surveying our costumes through a lens of condescension that would fog a camera.
And just like that—poof!—our evening plans were turned upside down like a jack-o’-lantern after a gusty wind. Isla suggested, or rather dictated, that we change, borrow from her oh-so-generous wardrobe, or simply leave.
Those choices came wrapped in a smug superiority tied with an invisible ribbon, and that’s when it hit me. Eight years of enduring subtle insults and dismissive ‘compliments’ had prepared me for this. It was my own villain origin story—but like any good superhero, I had a plan in mind.
With a grin and a heart full of roaring defiance, I announced, “Actually, we’re going on an adventure instead,” rallying my family to a more genuine celebration—the downtown Halloween festival. A place where costumes didn’t need a designer label to qualify, and where joy was homemade, just like our capes.
The festival? A resounding success. We bobbed for apples, won a giant stuffed bat, and painted our faces with superhero masks, ending the night with hot chocolate and an irreplaceable sense of family unity.
The next morning, a friend tipped me off to Isla’s intended slight—those costumes weren’t coincidental. My resolve crystallized. No cape or costume could have prepared Isla for what came next.
I unleashed my plan: a rented billboard opposite Isla’s estate, displaying our joyous family photo from the festival, proudly claiming “The Real Super Family: No Villains Allowed.” It was my caped coup de grâce to her petty plans.
The neighborhood buzzed with the news. Gossip transformed into supportive cheers, and memes flooded in like some inexplicably satisfying popcorn storm. Locals whispered with a camaraderie reminiscent of a superhero league meeting, backing me against the unwelcome villainy of designer deceit.
Later, as I stood in the kitchen, watching our boys play superheroes in the backyard, I realized something key: Isla might have a mansion and fancy costumes, but she didn’t have the one thing we cherished above all—a sense of real, unadulterated family joy.
At that moment, capes and laughter fluttered in the autumn breeze, reminding me and my boys that while superheroes are often defined by flashy suits and epic adventures, true heroism can lie in standing against life’s real villains with a heart full of love and a spirit boundless as the sky.
