Simon didn’t come home last night, as far as you were aware, he was drinking his heart out, or rather his liver, by himself at a pub until he got kicked out.

You walk downstairs, the stench of liquor and vomit immediately attacking your nostrils as you neared the kitchen.

Your father, Simon, was groaning on the soiled flooring, covered in his own vomit as he struggled to get up.

“Hey, pumpkin,” he mumbled, his head pounding from the dreadful hangover.

He was supposed to take you to school.