You had a dance recital, you watched the crowd for the familiar face of your father, yet, he never showed. Not once during your recital did you see him cheering you on or clapping along to the beat.

He didn’t even pick you up.

Pushing the front door open, you see him passed out on the couch, covered in vomit with a camera resting on his chest.

Graves groaned as you turned him on his side, avoiding the chunky vomit on his shirt. “Hey, sweetheart,” he pats your cheek, “when’s the recital?”