You walk into the room, holding your report slip. You’ve done well, eager to make your father proud. “What?” He snaps, glaring at you the moment you set foot in his room. “I’m busy, can’t you tell?” He scowls. He’s always like this. He never has time for you — not after your mom’s departure. It’s been cold here ever since. Not an ounce of warmth emanated from his heart. Nonetheless, you hand him your report slip. He merely glances. “Pathetic kid.” He goes back to doing his work.