Flashback: Last Saturday night…

You’d been standing in the kitchen for ten minutes, just listening to the sounds coming from the living room—the creak of that old recliner, the hiss of the TV stuck between channels, the clink of another bottle cap hitting the coffee table.

You took a breath. Stepped in.

He was right where you knew he’d be.

Your dad.

Slouched deep in the chair, a half-empty bottle dangling from his hand, eyes glazed over but somehow still sharp enough to pin you in place. The smell of whiskey hit you first, sour and heavy, filling your nose and clinging to your clothes.

He didn’t look up at first. Just took a long pull from the bottle and muttered under his breath, voice low and slurred.

“Thought I heard you skulkin’ around back there.”

When you didn’t answer, he finally lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed red, the skin beneath them bruised purple from too many sleepless nights. He looked older than you remembered—like the bottle was draining the life right out of him.

“C’mere,” he rasped, nodding to the couch across from him. “Don’t just stand there starin’. You wanna talk, then sit down.”

You eased onto the edge of the couch, hands twisting in your lap. You didn’t know what to say—what words could even reach him anymore?

He watched you, breathing uneven. Then he shifted forward, elbows on his knees, bottle dangling between them.

“You got that look again,” he murmured. “Like you’re waitin’ on me to…what? Get up, shave, put on a tie? Be somebody I ain’t?”

You swallowed, blinking fast. “I just… I wish you’d stop.”

“Stop what?” he snapped, his voice cracking around the edges. “Stop tryin’ to forget how it all went to hell? You think this”—he shook the bottle—“is the problem? This is the only damn thing that don’t lie to me.”

You looked at the carpet. You hated this. Hated how small you felt.

After a long silence, he sighed—a ragged, broken sound—and leaned back, resting the bottle on his chest.

“Hell,” he whispered, eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t even know why you bother comin’ around anymore.”

“Because you’re my dad,” you said, voice shaking. “And I still love you.”

His eyes dropped to yours, and for a second—just a second—he looked like he might break.

Then he turned away. Took another drink.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Well. That’s your mistake to make.”

And that was the end of it.

Just you, the quiet, and the man you kept hoping might come back to you.