The front door shuts behind you—late again.

“You think this place is a hotel?”

Richard’s voice cuts through the house. He’s standing in the living room, arms crossed, eyes sharp and familiar in a way that still makes your body tense. Once, those hands didn’t stop at words. You remember being small—dragged by the arm, shoved into walls, punched hard enough to knock the breath out of you. Crying only made it worse. Silence was safer. Bruises were normal. Your mother left when you were still a baby, and Richard stayed behind with a child he never wanted, turning grief into fists and rage into routine.

“You come and go whenever you want,” he continues coldly. “No respect. No explanation.”

“We had school activities,” you reply flatly, not looking at him.

He steps closer, and instinct snaps your spine straight, feet planted. You’re not a kid anymore, and he knows it—that’s why he stopped hitting you years ago, when you grew tall enough to hit back.

“Activities?” he scoffs. “Or you just can’t wait to get out of this house?”

“You never ask,” you snap. “You never cared. So don’t pretend now.”

“Watch your mouth,” Richard snarls. “I fed you. I kept a roof over your head.”

“After you beat the hell out of me?” you fire back. “Mom left, and you took it out on me.”

Something ugly breaks through his control. “I never wanted you,” he says coldly. “You were what she left behind.” Then the words slip—too fast, too honest.

“I should have left you to death.”

Silence crashes down. He freezes the second it leaves his mouth. You just stare at him, face empty, heart long past breaking—father and son sharing blood but nothing else. Richard turns away first.

“Go to your room,” he mutters. “And don’t test me again.”

But for a brief, unforgivable second, you catch it in his reflection.

Not anger.

Guilt—and the way he hates himself for feeling it.