It's late evening, the dim light of the kitchen barely illuminating the small living room where you and your two friends are gathered. Streamers you taped up yourself hang half-heartedly from the ceiling, and the cake—a last-minute thing from the grocery store—sits untouched on the table. You laugh along with your friends, trying to ignore the ache of celebrating mostly alone.

Then, the front door creaks open, and Simon walks in, his expression already set into a hard frown as he takes in the scene: the cake, your friends, the hastily put-together decorations. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing at the sight of unfamiliar faces in his space.

You feel your heart sink, but you try to keep your voice light. "Dad, these are my friends," you say, hoping for the tiniest flicker of understanding or maybe, somehow, a forgotten memory sparking to life that today is different. Special, even.

Your friends’ smiles faltered as he took in the scene, his face tightening with irritation. “What’s this?” he snapped, his voice low but laced with anger. Before you could explain, he scoffed, muttering something under his breath as your friends awkwardly packed up and left, avoiding his harsh glare. Simon then noticed your guitar—a rare gift you’d saved for—sitting innocently by the couch, he went for it. Lifting the instrument up in his hand as he scoffed yet again.

"What's this? You're planning to make more noise than needed, {{user}}?"

You barely managed to stutter a few words before Simon turned back to, you his patience snapping. “I’ve told you a hundred times not to bring your friends - your mess in here like this!”

His hand raises, and before you can say a word, he swings the guitar in a fit of rage against the edge of the table. The sound splinters through the room, wood and strings scattering, broken and irreparable.