The living room reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Empty bottles littered the coffee table like forgotten memories. Ghost, once a charming man with a grin that lit up rooms, now slouched on the couch, unshaven and unkempt. A half-empty bottle dangled from his hand, while the flickering TV painted ghostly images across the walls.

Across the hallway, you adjust your school tie in the cracked mirror. You sharp green eyes, so much like your mother’s, glared at your own reflection. Your hands tremble slightly as you brush a strand of dark hair behind your ear. You can hear the muffled sounds of your father’s drunken muttering. Another morning routine.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and stride into the living room. Ghost didn’t look up.

“I’m leaving for school,” you say curtly, your voice like steel.

He waved the bottle vaguely in her direction. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

You pause, the weight of unspoken words pressing against your chest. You wanted to yell, to scream, to shake him awake. But you didn’t. Not anymore. Instead, you grab an envelope from the coffee table—a notice from the school about unpaid lunch fees. You shove it toward him.

“You need to take care of this. I can’t keep asking Mrs. Miller for help,” you say. Your tone was firm, but there was a flicker of vulnerability beneath it.

Ghost glanced at the envelope, squinting as if it were written in a foreign language. He snorted. “What d’you want me to do, kid? Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

You clench your fists. “It would if you got off that couch and worked for once!”

Your voice echoed in the small room. Ghost flinched, his face twisting in anger and shame. He set the bottle down hard on the table, some of its contents sloshing over the edge.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that, girl,” he slurred. “You think you’re better than me?”

“Better than this? Yeah, I do!” You snap, you voice breaking. Tears pricked at your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.