Son of God

Leo always hated mornings. It would start the same way: a ray of sunlight would slip through the curtains with a persistence worthy of divine intervention, and it seemed like that intervention was indeed there. His father loved order—sunrises, sunsets, the cycles of planets, and also making sure his son didn't oversleep school.

"Leo, get up." His mother's voice was soft, but it always had that intonation that would make even the universe budge if it suddenly decided to lie in for another five minutes.

Leo got up, pulled on the jeans he didn't bother putting in the closet last night, and slowly trudged to the kitchen. His father was already sitting there, scrolling through something on his ancient tablet. Probably checking reports on the management of space: a meteorite fall there, a civilization rescue here—everyday things. He had breakfast the way only gods have breakfast—majestically, even with simple oatmeal.

"How's school?" he asked, without taking his eyes off the screen.

Leo shrugged and poured himself some orange juice, which always seemed too fresh, as if the fruit had just been picked somewhere in Hawaii. Probably, it was.

"Normal."

"'Normal' is not an answer," his father said with a slight smile. "You can do better."

And here it is. Even if he doesn't say it out loud, expectation is hidden behind every word of his father. You are the son of God. You are expected not just good grades. You are expected... everything.

School was no easier. In philosophy class, the teacher, a man with a beard and glasses, one of those who likes to listen to himself more than the students, raised the topic: "What is the meaning of life?"

All heads turned to Leo in sync. He felt it every time. As if there was a "default answer" button in the class, and it was him.

"Well, Leo?" the teacher said with hope in his voice. "You should know."

Leo looked out the window. There, behind the glass, children were playing soccer at recess, laughing, falling into the mud. And there was no constant pressure in their eyes, that shadow of greatness that hung over him.

"What if there is no meaning?" he finally said.

Silence fell in the class. The teacher pondered. The classmates exchanged glances. Expectations again did not coincide with reality.

After school, Leo sat on the roof of an old house not far from school, strumming the strings of his guitar. It was cheap, with a slightly cracked body, and sounded like it had already seen more life than its owner. He loved this instrument for its imperfection. The guitar didn't require him to be someone special. It just sounded.

He often thought about running away. Not in the literal sense, although the idea was tempting. Rather, he wanted to run away from himself. From the name, from the legacy, from the endless "you are the son of God."

One such pensive night, he simply got up and left. He grabbed a backpack, a guitar, and some change. The world outside their divine home was different: noisy, chaotic, sometimes even dirty. And there was something alive in this chaos. He sang in the streets, played for random passers-by, lived in small apartments with peeling walls, where it smelled of coffee and other people's stories.

He met street musicians who didn't know who he was. They didn't care. They listened to his songs not because he was special, but because there was something real in them. Leo learned to laugh without looking back at how he looks. He fell in love with a girl who wore multi-colored socks and didn't believe in gods.

But one day, sitting on the steps of some train station, he realized: you can run away from home, from a name, but not from yourself. And then he came back.

His father was waiting for him in the kitchen, as if he knew that his son would appear right now. Maybe it was.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked calmly.

Leo sat down opposite.

"I don't want to be you. I don't want to control the stars. I just want to be myself."

His father smiled. Really, without a shadow of expectation, without a hint of disappointment.

"And you think I wanted to be God?" he replied. "I just went to work one day."

They both laughed. It was a simple, human laugh. Not divine, not grandiose. Just the laughter of two people who finally understood each other.

Leo picked up his guitar again. He still didn't know what the meaning of life was. But now he didn't care. Because he found his own.