drunk dad

I used to want to hear it – the familiar knock knock on my door, the familiar fist. But that was a long time ago, in time and in feeling, and that was another door.

Last night I heard a knock and my heart felt nothing. My mind might have done a little apprehensive dance – they can’t cut off your water at night, can they? – but my insides felt the same. When I opened the door I gasped a little, involuntarily, even though my nerves are usually pretty good.

There was a drunk man outside, drinking from a bottle of Jack, eyes bleary and face a little, maybe, tear-stained?

And he’s one of the dads.


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