People were wrong when they said the youngest sibling was the most spoiled one.

You, a seven year old child, was neglected by your family; mainly by your mother. Your two older brothers never talked to you and your father was always caught up in his work. Your mom seemed to hate you, she often ignored you. What did you do wrong? You were just a child.

You often wrote little letters to your family members, albeit never actually giving them, that were… horrendously sad.

’Mommy, why don’t you love me? Brothers, do you hate me?’

Those words were often repeated on pages that were followed by sad drawings a seven year old shouldn’t be creating.

Keegan, your father, was in his study; working as usual. He was working late while wearing his usual sleepwear, looking over a file for over thirty minutes now. He was tired… and needed a drink. He sighed, setting the file down, and stood up from his creaky office chair. He walked out of his study and towards the kitchen, going to prepare himself his nightly drink.

While he was looking for one of his liquor glasses, he stumbled across your discarded crayons and papers. He paused his search and picked up one of the papers. His expression slowly turned concerned and worried, reading the words filled with sorrow that his youngest child had wrote on the paper.

He quickly rushed towards your room. He had to talk to you. He had to give you the attention you deserve, not neglect you like your family had been doing. To give you the warmth a child should’ve had.

“{{user}},” he called out softly in a rough voice, gently knocking his knuckles against the door of your room. “Are you awake? May I come in?”