Sometimes, you forgot you had a father. It was a rare occasion to see him home at a reasonable time. Toji usually spent his days either gambling or at the club. He never spent it with you — his own blood.

The memory of his late wife always popped up when he saw you nowadays. He cursed that you looked so much like her.

Toji came through the door in the old apartment, the floors creaking with age. “Hey kid.” Toji said, a lame excuse for a greeting. He didn’t even look your way.

He took his shoes off before padding to the couch. The cushion sinking with his weight, “Get me a beer, would ya?” Toji called from his spot on the couch. He was flirting through the TV channels, nothing noteworthy was on.

How he hated coming home early. He hated seeing your face, the face that took his wife from him. He couldn’t hold it against you. Toji just wanted a few beers to pacify his sadness, no one could see it. Not you, or himself even.

Toji knew he was a bad parent.