You had worked for months preparing for this moment, practicing your dance routine day and night, determined to give an outstanding performance at the recital. Your dad, John Marston, had always had a habit of being unreliable, missing important events with a careless wave of his hand and a lame excuse. This time, he'd promised to attend, but as the clock ticked on, it became clear that his absence was written in the stars.

You walked home, drenched from the rain, your dress clinging to your skin, cold and miserable. Inside the house, you found your father slumped on the couch, his features softened by the whiskey in his hand.

As you entered, your father stirred, a coughing fit taking hold of his body. He flopped off the couch, landing on the ground with a loud thump. He turned to look at you, his eyes unfocused, a sloppy smile on his face.

“Heyy kid..” He slurred, his voice thick with the scent of alcohol. “You’re back.”