I never expected to be at Philly’s Fan Expo. Then, I became obsessed with comics in middle age.

I strolled into the sea of superheroes, of Jedi warriors and Ghostbusters, pink-haired pixies and ax-wielding goblins, or at least scores of deliriously happy people dressed like them, not knowing what to expect.

I had arrived at Philly’s Fan Expo, the annual celebration of all things fandom, from comics to sci-fi, horror, anime, gaming or cosplay, and the excitement inside the Convention Center was real. This year’s event is special: By chance, the three-day event, from May 3 to 5, fell on the same weekend as National Free Comic Day, practically a holy day for a particular ilk of nerd: Comic book fans like me.

Two years ago, I couldn’t pick out the Avengers or X-Men from a lineup.

Then, a few things happened: My toddler son discovered Batman, my father passed away, and my family sold my childhood home.

After my father’s death, cleaning out my parents’ house in Queens, I came across a paltry stack of comics. I’d gotten them as a kid, back in that weird time in the ‘90s when everyone thought that Ken Griffey Jr.’s rookie card and the next issue of Batman would skyrocket in value and make you rich one day. I guess I’d picked up the comics as a kind of insurance. I barely ever read them.

But there in my childhood bedroom, I wasn’t struck by the books so much as the memory they unearthed: of my dad, dutifully carting me and my friends to all those hobby shows in dingy ballrooms.

Whatever I was interested in, for however long, my dad indulged it — during my Civil War phase, he drove me to 37 battlefields.

And I thought about giving to my 2-year-old son what my dad gave to me. As it turned out, the kid had lately become obsessed with Batman.

Maybe this was a little bit of my doing. I’d flipped on the Batman show from the 1960s on a whim. The Batmobile screamed on-screen, and something clicked in my son’s tiny brain. “Bat-beel” wasn’t my son’s first word. But it was probably his most frequent.

So, not long after I found my old comics, I made my way to Brave New Worlds, a comic book store in Old City, with the idea of purchasing a few toys for my son. Maybe a book or two for me, to brush up on my Bat-knowledge.

What I did not expect was that I would, more than 30 years after I bought my first comic book, finally become an actual fan myself.

Dealing with grief and all the other indignities of adult life, the books I purchased on a whim, and the infinite universes they opened up, were an escape. From Daredevil’s gritty Hell’s Kitchen to the blasted expanse of Dr. Manhattan’s Mars, to the extravagant pop concerts performed by literal gods in the Wicked and the Divine, I kept going back to buy more. I kept taking my son. And then the trips to the store weren’t an escape: They were a way to connect with him.

While my son had already displayed his precious comics genius by shouting “Bat-beel” at every opportunity, he was obviously young for the books. But he loved making his own worlds with his superhero toys, and he was impressing the folks at Brave New Worlds by rattling off the names of every superhero and villain in their statue case. And I began compiling old and new comics of all his favorite characters, so he could have them some day. Our trips became a weekly tradition.

The Philly comics folks I encountered are the diametric opposite of the nasal-voiced comic book snob in the Simpsons who is always shoving Bart away from the collector’s items.

“I do really believe that it should be a safe space,” said Rob LeFevre, owner of Brave New Worlds, who managed the shop since its opening in 2007 before buying it outright in August. “Literally anyone could come in and feel at home and comfortable. That is the ultimate goal.”

LeFevre, 42, like my son, is a Batman nut. His pride and joy is filling the back wall of the shop with rare gems from the golden and silver age of comics, the 1950s and 1960s, that he discovers on trips to estate sales that he treats with the same reverence as an archaeological dig.

“Each one is like a time capsule,” he said.

The shop, which also has a Willow Grove location, thrives because of the tight-knit community it’s helped foster. During the pandemic, LeFevre and his staff, managers Brian Johnson and Cacey Crawford, used the opportunity to get closer with their customers, keeping the shop open for regulars who would pull up to the curb for comics like they were getting their essentials — and they were. Johnson cycled through the city with stacks of comics for customers who couldn’t leave home and the gang used social media to keep people abreast of the latest story arcs in their favorite series.

“We wanted to be the comic book store Philly needed,” Johnson said.

They had customers lined up outside before opening for Free Comic Book Day on May 4.

“It’s our St. Patrick’s Day,” LeFevre said.

Crawford, like Johnson, first began working for store credit to buy more comics before moving onto an actual paycheck. “I was paying them to work here,” she said, laughing. That’s a common practice for diehards. For her, creating community at the shop resonates a bit more deeply.

“As a queer woman in the comic book world, it’s really easy to feel unwelcome,” said Crawford, who cohosts a bi-weekly comic book podcast, Tales from the Short Box. She recalls stopping in shops only to be asked if she was buying books for her boyfriend. “Like you couldn’t possibly be there for you. I want to make a place that conventionally seems like it would be exclusionary and make it as open as possible to everyone.”

That’s a goal of many other shops in Philly, as comic book fandom has exploded in recent years — during the pandemic, with the popularity of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and with the enduring draw of manga.

Partners and Son, an indie art and comics shop near South Street, has become a hub for Philly’s vibrant comics creator scene. Gina Dawson, who opened the shop with her husband, Tom Marquet, in 2019, said the Philly comic book scene feels almost like a family.

“There’s a genuine support system among artists here,” she said. “It’s tight.”

Around the corner at venerable Atomic City Comics, a longtime Black-owned comic book store that became another frequent stop for me, owner Daryll Jones draws in comics converts by playing off his own enthusiasm. He’s into books that show heroes not as gods but as flawed human beings just trying to do good.

“Just like us,” he said.

Back at the Fan Expo last Friday, I was lost in a sea of the deliriously happy people, shopping for fan art and figurines and eager for photos and autographs from the celebrity guests like Marisa Tomei (Aunt May in the latest Spider-Man movies) and Hayden Christiansen (Anakin Skywalker, of course). The comic book geeks like me were flipping through rows and rows of boxes, looking for that elusive rare issue they just had to have.

And of course I had to find a new toy for my son (his obsession this week has moved on to the Spider-Man villain Rhino).

For many fans, the event, now in its 24th year, is a day long marked on their calendars. Organizers expected 50,000 attendees.

“It just feels so nice to have fun together without any sort of judgment. We can be nerds and be totally fine, and be with our people,” said Haley McCann, 23, of Sicklerville.

I was happy to be among my people, too.