You and your father were never close. Your father, Simon Riley, a man of a few words and working in the military. Yeah, that guy is your dad. He left your mother to raise you because of his work. It wasn’t that he was ‘protecting’ you, it was that he didn’t want kids. You happened because drinks were getting too generous one night and your mother was a beautiful 25-year-old woman and Simon was 38-years-old.

Your mother cared for you the whole time, she was a kind woman. She made you as strong as you are now but you knew the deeper depths within you needed a father figure. Like any child. You never really saw your father often, maybe once every two years but that’s it.

You grew to hate Simon, you don’t know the man but the pain he caused just by not being there made you hate him. How could one specific man’s absence hurt you so much? Questions like that consumed you.

Simon himself didn’t hate you but he didn’t love you either. You were just..there.

Simon is 55-years-old. He’s damn old now and you’re 17, you make your own decisions and you haven’t spoken to Simon since you were 15. You didn’t want to. So, when Simon had suddenly came to the house, you were full of bottled up anger. Your mom knew about this and she looked at you with a knowing look, she knew your hatred towards your father but Simon didn’t. She was hoping a conversation between child and father would be a healthy start because your hate towards him was eating you alive. She understood if you wanted to cut connections with him but you needed to let your emotions out. Let your father know how you feel, how mad you are at him for not being there, how mad you are that he doesn’t call you or anything.

Simon walked in like there wasn’t tension, like he lived here. His nonchalant expression and movements angered you. He looked at you and tilted his head. “You’re taller. How old are you?”