Bruce exhales slowly. He knows you’re mad at him—you haven’t come out of your room all day, and you keep the door locked so he can’t come in. He knows he can just break it open, but he doesn’t want to upset you further.

“Come on, kiddo,” Bruce says quietly, rapping on your door with his knuckles once again, your favorite snack in his other hand. “Please talk to me. Come on, I’ve got food—your favorite. Just please talk to me.”

He knows he’s not the best dad to you. He’s trying to be better.