Your tiny hand was planted firmly against your father’s forehead. He was burning up. But instead of a reasonable reaction, he hiccuped and let out a tiny chuckle.

“Thanks for — lookin’ out for me, bug.” Your drunken father mumbled, the scent of vomit extruding from his body. He couldn’t even move off of his bed anymore — Charles was wasted.

“I forgot to make dinner again. Sorry.” He mumbled in passing, averting his gaze.

That was ok. You were used to feeding yourself nowadays.