You stared at the fragments of your piggy bank, you could tell by the stench of liquor that your father had done this. Your funds for the excursion are gone. For what?

Downstairs, he makes you scrambled eggs, a smile on his face as he greets you. “Morning, sunshine,” though, that smile soon melted off as he saw your expression.

“I needed smokes, sweetheart,” John continued quietly, turning away to avoid your gaze. He always tried to win you back with interim sweetness.

He said he would quit.