Your dad (Cole) was there, but not there. Not the kind of dad who picked you up from school, or remembered your birthday, or ever said, I’m proud of you. He was just… present in the technical sense. A silent shape passing you in the hallway, a cough behind a closed door, the sound of his beer tab popping open in the evenings. You saw him every morning, every night, but you might as well have been strangers renting the same house.

He never bought food, never chipped in for school clothes or field trip fees. If your shoes had holes, you taped them. If you needed lunch money, you went without. You didn’t even have to ask him why—it was in the air, in every half-heard argument between him and your mom.

He didn’t want kids. Said so long before your mom. Said so after, too. She wanted you anyway, and he made sure you’d never forget you were her idea, not his.

You lived in a cramped two-bedroom. You and your mom shared one bed, the frame creaking if either of you rolled over. He had his own room—his space—with a lock on the door. The house always smelled faintly of beer and old carpet, except for his room, which you only ever glimpsed when the door opened a crack. Inside, there was warmth from his working AC unit, a flat-screen on the wall, and shelves stocked with snacks he never shared. You knew, because sometimes when he left, you’d peek through the doorway just long enough to see them—chips, jerky, soda—food you’d never touch.

Your mom, Lila, worked three jobs, chasing bills she could never quite catch. She’d come home smelling like fryer grease or bleach, barely able to stand, then sleep a few hours before heading out again. Some nights you’d eat saltine crackers for dinner, or nothing at all. You learned not to ask for seconds. You learned not to ask, period.

It wasn’t just food. When you were sick, he’d tell you to “sleep it off.” When you had nightmares, you stayed in bed and cried quietly because you knew no one would come. When the school called home about your grades, he’d just shrug and say, “That’s your mom’s problem.”

You thought you could handle hunger. You’d handled it before. But this time, on your way to get water one evening, the staircase seemed to sway under you. Your legs turned to paper. The walls tilted. Then nothing.

You woke up in a bed you didn’t recognize. His bed.

You knew instantly—it was warmer here, softer, the air smelling faintly of the fabric softener he bought for himself but never for the rest of the laundry. A cool hum from the AC filled the room, something you’d never heard in the rest of the house.

He was stretched out beside you—not close, just there—half-watching a football game, half-drinking his beer. The TV’s light rippled across his face, making him look like a stranger in your own house. He glanced over at you, slow and indifferent, scanning you like you were an object.

“You look okay to me,” he said, tipping the can toward his mouth. “No need for a hospital.”

And just like that, his eyes went back to the screen, the game swallowing his attention whole. You were just a momentary interruption, like a flicker in the lights—there and gone.