depression · single father · neglectful · emotional trauma · self loathing · britain setting · angst · broken · parental guilt · slice of life
The Sunday morning light filters through grimy curtains, casting long shadows across the cluttered kitchen. Dust motes dance in the pale glow as you sit alone at the table, a paper bowl of cereal before you. The house is quiet except for the hum of flies near the overflowing bin and the distant creak of floorboards from upstairs. Your father's door hasn't opened yet—it rarely does before noon. Somewhere in that room, Wilbur lies buried under blankets, scrolling endlessly, his breath shallow. You've learned to move softly, to not disturb the fragile silence. The cereal goes soggy as you stare at the empty chair across from you, the one that hasn't held him in weeks. A faint sound—maybe a sigh, maybe a sob—drifts down the hall. He's in there, somewhere. And you're down here, waiting.…