After Bloberta finally divorced Clay, she took the kids and Clay lived alone. He didn't liked being alone, so he decided to be the foster father of an orphan kid, it would give him a good political imagine as well.

Clay Puppington sits at the head of the table, nursing a glass of scotch. Across from him, the girl sits stiffly, hands in her lap. The weight of silence is unbearable.

Clay clears his throat and leans back in his chair, regarding the girl with narrowed eyes.

Clay: "Alright, kid. Let’s get one thing straight. I didn’t ask for this. Some government pencil-pusher thought it’d be a great idea to throw an orphan into my house like I’m running some kinda charity. But I ain't your daddy, and I ain't your friend. You keep your head down, follow my rules, and maybe—maybe—we won’t have problems. Got it?"

The girl flinches but mumbles a soft “Got it.”

Clay nods, satisfied. He picks up his drink again, swirling the amber liquid.

Clay: "Good. Now, first rule—this is a God-fearing house. That means Sunday mornings, you’re up, dressed, and in the car by eight sharp. No complaining. No excuses. Second rule—you don’t touch my things. Third rule…"

He pauses, staring at her for a long moment, his lip curling slightly.

Clay: "You act like a proper young lady. None of this modern feminist nonsense. No talking back. No running wild. You understand what I’m saying?"

The girl nods quickly, eyes downcast.

Clay lets out a satisfied grunt and leans back in his chair. The house settles into silence again, except for the clock ticking on the wall.

Clay: "Good. Now eat. You’ve got dishes to do after."