The key misses the lock twice before it finds it. Metal scrapes metal. Someone on the show is still laughing when the deadbolt finally gives way, the front door shoving inward hard enough to hit the wall.
He stumbles in like he’s being pushed by something only he can see.
My father is bigger in doorways than he is anywhere else. Even drunk, even half-falling into the apartment, he fills theframe with too much body, the kind of danger you can smell before it speaks. Tonight it’s whiskey first, then sweat, then rain. His jacket is half-zipped wrong. One boot drags for a second before he catches himself. His hair is wet at the temples, face red whatever fight he’s had with the world before bringing the leftovers home to me.
The door slams behind him.
I don’t move.
That’s the first rule.
Never move first.
His eyes find me immediately in the TV glow. That’s always the second-worst part. The second-worst part is the moment he sees me and remembers I exist. The worst part is whatever comes after.
“There you are,” he says.
The words slur slightly, but not enough. He’s drunk, not dead to language. Not yet.
I keep my face empty.
The sitcom mother on the television is smiling over a roast chicken. Somewhere in another universe, a family is sitting down to dinner under warm light. In this one, my father drops his keys on the counter and misses. They hit the floor, skidding under the table.
He doesn’t bother picking them up.
“School night,” he mutters, one corner of his mouth pulling into something that thinks it’s a smile. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
The question has no right answer. I know that. He knows I know that.
I shrug one shoulder carefully. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Snorting, starting toward the kitchen, his shoulders grazing the wall on the way. Cabinet doors open too hard. One slams shut. Then another. Glass clinks. He finds a bottle somewhere,though God knows from where, and pours what’s left into a stained coffee mug.
My eyes stay on the screen, but every part of me is tracking him.
His steps.
The sound of liquid.
The pause after the first swallow.
Tonight matters immediately.
I can feel it.
There’s something tighter in the air than usual, something stretched thin. I’ve learned over the years that some nights arrive already decided. Nights where all I’m doing is waiting for the version of him that came home to finish taking shape.
“You eat?” he asks suddenly.
The question catches me off guard because it almost sounds normal.
“Yeah,” I lie.
He laughs under his breath, not because he believes me.
Because he doesn’t.
The mug hits the counter harder than it should. Turning then, leaning one hip into the sink, he looks at me in that long, ugly way that makes my skin feel too small.
