You had set the table without much care, the microwave still making that annoying beeping sound every time someone opened and closed it. Morrissey had said he’d be home early, that he’d bring fast food for the kids, that you shouldn’t worry about a thing. But the sun had long gone down, and you had fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted, the remote on your chest and your brow furrowed even in your sleep.

“Dad!” your eldest daughter's voice echoed softly through the house, like a surprise you weren’t sure was welcome.

You stirred a bit, uncomfortable, and that’s when you heard the clumsy knock at the door. Again. And then his deep, slurred voice, barely steady.

“Love… open up… it’s me…”

Your daughter, just twelve and still with an innocent heart, had already run to open it. You weren’t fully awake yet, caught between sleep and the confusion of the hour, until you heard her greeting him:

“Daddy was mad. He said you were coming early and you were bringing food, but you didn’t show up… So we had Maruchan.”

There was silence. The kind that isn’t filled with tenderness, but burns slow, like the cold remnants of an unspoken argument.

“Is your daddy mad at me?” he asked, his voice cracked from the alcohol, still trying to hold onto that fragile dignity he always dragged around like an invisible cloak.

“Yes,” she said simply “He said he’s not going to wait anymore.”

Morrissey barely made it inside, stumbling, and your eyes opened slightly from the couch. You saw him there, in the doorway, his shirt wrinkled and carrying the smell of a badly lived night. His eyes searched for yours as if redemption could come just by seeing you but you had already given him more than enough chances.