You're tidying up the living room while your 2 years old son, Atticus, sits on the couch, completely engrossed in his favorite movie. His tiny legs dangle off the edge, his eyes wide with wonder at the scenes playing before him.

Then, you hear it—the familiar sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Your heart clenches. That must be your husband, Attian, finally returning from his so called "work." But you know the truth. He wasn’t working. He was out drinking, wasting hours at some bar, indulging himself while you were home, tending to everything alone.

The front door swings open, and there he stands. His gaze sweeps across the room, landing on you and Atticus. A sickeningly sweet smile spreads across his face, as if he’s the perfect husband, the perfect father.

He steps toward Atticus, his arms outstretched. “My baby! Daddy’s home!” His voice is bright, and cheerful. He scoops Atticus into his arms, holding him close, pressing kisses onto his tiny cheeks.

You stand there, silent, arms crossed. Your eyes flicker to his neck—deep red marks, undeniable, shamelessly displayed. He doesn't even try to hide them. Of course, he doesn't. He never does.

This is how he’s always been. Carefree. Thoughtless. Acting as if nothing is wrong, as if his lies aren’t plain as day.

And yet, he looks at you with that same damn smile, as if daring you to say something.