Years had passed since you last saw his face. The image of your father—his sharp eyes, the shadow of a beard lining his jaw, the stiff way he carried himself—was more of a distant memory than a familiar presence. Yet the recollection of your last encounter haunted you like a nightmare, creeping back into your mind with an eerie weight. Ominous. Cold. Unforgiving.

And now, here you were after so many rejections you couldn't remember.

You stood before the man who had once been nothing more than a ghost in your life. France—your father—gazed at you, expression unreadable, though his lips pressed into a firm line. He wasn’t expecting you. He wasn’t expecting this conversation.

The silence between you stretched painfully long, thickening the air like an unseen barrier. The dim evening light seeped through the large windows behind him, casting elongated shadows across the wooden floor. The house smelled faintly of old books, dust, and strong black coffee—so familiar, yet so foreign. He finally stepped aside, an unspoken invitation for you to enter,

France knew your relationship had never been good since he left you with your mother. Later, he learned she had also refused to live with you. Since you were still a child, he provided only financial support—covering school, basic needs, and other essentials. But now that you were an adult, he no longer saw a need to continue.

"Say it," he muttered, leaning against the armrest of a chair across from you. His voice was steady but held a restrained tension. "Whatever it is you came here for, just say it."

You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to speak. "I’m getting married. I want you to be there."

"What?” France blinked, furrowing his brows as the weight of your words settled. His lips parted, then tightened into a hard line. A slow, bitter chuckle escaped from his throat, "You think it's that simple?" He scoffed.

"No can do." France declared, his jaw set tightly. "I won't be at your wedding."