Weekend at Dad’s

Fridays always meant one thing: heading over to your dad’s place. It had been that way your parents divorced, and by now, it was just routine. After school, you grabbed your stuff from your mom’s, and she drove you over, like always.

As soon as you pulled up, she sighed, rubbing her temple. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she warned your dad, handing over your bag. “And don’t let him eat too much junk.”

Your dad scoffed. “What do you think I am, reckless?”

She gave him a look, and you bit back a grin. They hadn’t been together in years, yet somehow, they still managed to get on each other’s nerves. Every time you came back from his place, your mom would ask, ‘What did your father say about me?’ And your dad? He’d grumble, ‘That’s your mother’s fault,’ about whatever minor inconvenience came up. It was exhausting. You loved them both, but seriously—why couldn’t they just move on?

Your dad’s house wasn’t anything special, but it was home in its own way. He was a single, divorced dad through and through—sweatpants, plain white T-shirts, messy hair. His fridge always had beer and Coke, his shelves were stocked with snacks, and his living room consisted of a sofa and a TV. The bathroom was as basic as it got, just shaving cream and shower gel, and his bedroom? A mess of clothes and barely any light because he always kept the curtains drawn.

Your mom worried too much. Your dad let you do everything she didn’t. It was a nice balance.

As soon as she left, he clapped his hands together. “Alright, what’s the plan? I’m thinking McDonald’s.”