Ah, the modern suburban family.

Daddy works a good job, Mommy smiles pretty in her pearls, and the kids all bright-eyed and sticky-fingered. The perfect family.

The American dream was what his father drilled into his skull since the first time he dared cry over a scraped knee.

It’s not clean or neat, it clearly doesn’t fit into the life that his father preached. But Henry? He never asked for any of it. He just did what was expected, married the girl down the street when he was barely able to understand the weight of a commitment, and bought that damn house to keep the peace.

But today?

He’s smiling.

Not the fake kind. No, this one’s real, because today he got to see you.

Helen’s voice drifts from the kitchen, as he kisses her cheek, gentle and practiced, like a man who’s had years to perfect the act. She leans into it without question, barely sparing him a glance. The eggs are sizzling, the sun’s barely up, and it’s another perfect day in the neighborhood.

Once he’s out the door his milk truck hums along the familiar route. White bottles clink softly in the back, the air still crisp from the morning chill.

Henry adjusts himself in the rearview mirror when he pulls up to your house, smoothing out his hair.

He grabs the crate of milk bottles and walks up to your door. Even over the hum of the truck, he can hear the familiar strain of a fight already in progress with your wife.

Before he even knocked the door opened, and there you were. Hungover as always.

Henry’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it softens.

“Helen would absolutely love it if you and your family could join us for dinner, darling,” he says, like he hadn’t spent last night tangled up in you.