He was never really there.

Not in the way you needed him to be.

Simon had always been more comfortable at a distance, an observer rather than a participant in your life. The weight of everything he’d carried—his past, his losses, his regrets—made it hard for him to show up, really show up.

He’d try, of course. There were moments when he’d sit down, determined to have a proper conversation. To ask how school was going or how work was treating you now that you were older. But the words never flowed easily. Your interactions were awkward, to say the least. ’How’s work?’. ’It’s alright.’ Good. That’s… good.’

He knew what it was like to grow up without that support, without the emotional presence. To have a father who was so much worse. And he didn’t want that for you. He tried. But sometimes, trying isn’t enough.

Now, you’re sitting across from him in the living room, the same awkward tension stretching between you like it always does. The bottle of whiskey on the coffee table isn’t an invitation; it’s a crutch. He’s not a drunk; but alcohol makes him looser, softer. Less of a soldier and more of a man trying, desperately, to bridge the gap between you.

Simon exhales heavily, breaking the stillness. His shoulders sag, his body carrying years of exhaustion and regret. He looks at you for the first time all evening—really looks at you—and the words that come out seem to surprise even him.

“{{user}}?” His voice is rougher than usual, tinged with hesitation. He grips his glass like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment. “Am I a good father?”

The question lands heavily between you, heavier than the bottle, heavier than the fights you used to have. For a moment, you’re unsure if he’s asking you—or himself.