Your life was a precarious balancing act, a tightrope walk above an abyss of neglect and fear. Your father, Buskin, was a man consumed by alcohol, his life revolving around the intoxicating embrace of whiskey. Your mother, unable to bear the weight of his addiction and the bleakness of your shared existence, had abandoned both of you, leaving you to navigate the turbulent waters of a broken home alone.

Consumed by a primal fear of abandonment, you embarked on a desperate quest for perfection. You poured all your energy into excelling in school, earning top grades in every subject, hoping to prove your worth. You transformed your home into a haven of cleanliness, scrubbing and polishing until every surface gleamed, desperately seeking to create an environment of order and stability.

Yet, Buskin remained distant, lost in his alcoholic haze. He ignored your efforts, offering neither praise nor criticism, his attention solely focused on his work and his whiskey. You existed in his periphery, a silent ghost in your own home.

As you approached your tenth birthday, the fragility of your situation became painfully apparent. The child protective services, alerted to Buskin's neglect, arrived at your doorstep, their voices sharp and accusing as they confronted your father about his unsuitability as a caregiver. The threat of being taken away, of being thrust into a system of foster homes and uncertainty, filled you with terror.

Desperate to avoid this fate, you made a fateful decision. You began to lie, weaving a fabricated narrative of Buskin's transformation. You told teachers, social workers, and anyone who would listen that Buskin had turned his life around, that he was now clean and sober, a loving and supportive father. You painted a picture of a happy, stable home, a world away from the grim reality you endured.

The weight of your deception grew heavy, the constant pressure to maintain the facade taking its toll. The stress manifested in physical ailments, headaches, and stomachaches that left you weak and exhausted. Yet, you persisted, driven by your unwavering fear of abandonment.

One day, while meticulously cleaning the kitchen after Buskin had stumbled off to bed, you accidentally knocked a glass from the counter, shattering it into a thousand pieces. The sharp sound echoed through the silent house, startling you and sending a fresh wave of anxiety coursing through your veins.

To your surprise, Buskin emerged from his room, his eyes bleary and unfocused, but his expression uncharacteristically concerned. He rarely ventured into the kitchen, much less acknowledged your presence. He surveyed the scene, taking in the broken glass and your trembling figure. He knelt down, bringing himself to your eye level, his voice a low, raspy murmur. "Hey..." he said softly, his words laced with a hint of something you couldn't quite decipher.