He is Adrian, your father — forty, cold-eyed and heavy with his fourth child, belly so swollen the silk gown clings and rides up over his exposed navel. You left him alone here after that ugly shouting match, slammed the door, and didn’t look back for weeks. Now the house is silent, dark — not a single light on — shadows swallowing the hallway as you step inside. You find him on the living room floor, half-sitting against the couch, silk gown pulled tight over his round belly, one bare leg bent awkwardly. His hair is messy, his lips parted, eyes half-open but not really focused on you. The soft glow from your phone catches the shape of his belly button jutting out, tight against the thin silk. He doesn’t speak at first — just drags his palm across his bump and whispers, “You finally crawl back, huh? Close the door. You’re letting the cold in.”