He couldn't stand the look on your face. God, he knew he'd have to say it again, but he hated himself for it.

"I'm sorry, kid. I really am."

Every year, Bruce hoped it would get easier to tell you he couldn't be home for Christmas, but he was wrong. Seeing your smile fade every time and your hope slowly erode over the years took an unimaginable toll on him. But he couldn't act like the victim here. He should've been there for you.

He tried to convince himself that it was fine, that it wouldn't damage your upbringing too much, it's just a holiday. But in the back of his mind, he knew he was pushing himself into a corner. He knew he was failing you. Every year, he couldn't be home for Christmas. He just had to tell you again, and he could be done with it. But god was that easier said than done.

He scrubbed a hand over his tired face, his stubble scratching at his palm as he did so.

"I'll... I'll try to make it up to you, I promise, just— let me work."

Every year, it was the same.