The late afternoon sun slipped through the thin curtains, painting warm gold across the living room walls. Angela sat on the edge of the worn sofa, clutching her notebook to her chest as if it might shield her from the turmoil brewing just beyond the door. The house was too quiet, and the kind of quiet that felt like waiting for a storm to break.
Suddenly, the front door creaked open.
The sound was casual—uneven but unhurried. No hesitation, no knock. Just the familiar sound of a door swinging inward.
Angela's heart lurched.
There he stood.
Her father.
The man who had been absent for so long, his neglect a shadow lingering over every corner of her life.
He looked tired. More tired than she'd ever seen him. His once neatly combed hair was messy, his shirt wrinkled and stained with faint sweat rings. His eyes were dull—sunken and heavy, betraying nights without sleep. The edges of his mouth pulled downward in a way that made him seem older than his years, worn thin by years of disinterest and avoidance.
Yet there was no apology. No guilt. No explanation. Nothing but an exhaustion so deep it almost swallowed him whole.
"Hey," he said, his voice hoarse and rough like sandpaper scraping against stone.
Angela's mother appeared behind her, standing stiffly in the doorway with arms crossed, eyes narrowed and cold.
Her mother's voice was low but firm. "Where have you been?"
The man shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know. Here and there. Wherever I needed to be."
Angela's chest tightened painfully. Memories bubbled up like poison — the nights her father had disappeared, the long silences that stretched into days, the unanswered questions she'd learned to swallow.
Her mother's voice grew sharper, edge cutting through the still air. "You can't just show up after all this time like nothing happened."
He yawned, covering his mouth with a grimy hand, and his gaze drifted toward the kitchen. "I'm tired. I'm hungry. What's to eat?"
The careless indifference in his words cut deeper than any harsh accusation.
Her mother's jaw clenched. "You don't get to walk back in here demanding things. You left us."
He gave a tired shrug and started moving toward the kitchen, dragging his feet.
"I'm here now," he said simply, "and I'm starving."
Angela felt frozen, caught between fury and disbelief. The man who had vanished during their darkest times was back, but he wasn't the father she'd hoped for. He was just… tired. Self-absorbed. Wanting to take but never to give.
Her mother's eyes flared with anger. "You're not welcome here."
His only response was a slow glance over his shoulder, filled with apathy. "I'm tired. Hungry. And here. That's enough."
He passed her without another word and disappeared into the kitchen.
Angela sat, heart pounding. Her mother remained at the threshold, her body rigid with quiet fury and hurt.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, filled with everything they weren't saying.
Angela's mind raced with a thousand questions — Why now? Why after all this time? Was he really so indifferent that he didn't even care how much damage he'd caused? Was this just another way to erase himself from their lives again, showing up only when he wanted something?
Her mother finally turned and moved to the window, staring out without really seeing. The tight line of her lips betrayed the storm of emotion simmering just beneath the surface.
Angela's throat was tight. She swallowed hard, gripping her notebook like a lifeline.
She wanted to scream. To shout. To demand answers.
But the only sound in the room was the faint clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen as her father prepared himself something to eat — slow, methodical, uncaring.
The minutes passed like hours.
Angela's mother finally spoke, voice low and measured. "I don't know what you expect from this."
Her father's footsteps shuffled back into the room. He leaned against the doorway, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
"Don't expect anything," he said flatly.
Angela felt tears prick the corners of her eyes but blinked them away fiercely.
Her mother's voice cracked slightly, but she held steady. "You left us. You left me. You left her."
He shrugged again, like the weight of the world was just another inconvenience.
"I thought you'd be better off without me."
Angela's breath caught in her throat.
Her mother's hands clenched at her sides. "Better off? We survived despite you, not because of you."
He met her gaze for a moment, eyes tired and empty. "Maybe."
The silence returned, crushing and vast.
Angela thought of all the times she'd begged him to stay. All the nights she'd waited for a sound from the other side of the door. All the holidays, birthdays, mornings without a father.
Her father's indifference was a wound that refused to heal.
Suddenly, he turned toward the staircase. "I'm going to bed. When I'm hungry, I eat. When I'm tired, I sleep. Don't expect me to explain myself."
His footsteps creaked up the stairs, leaving behind a vacuum of cold air.
Angela's mother sank down heavily onto the couch, burying her face in her hands.
Angela sat frozen, the weight of his return heavier than any absence had ever been.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. The house felt like a fragile shell, ready to crack under the strain of old wounds reopened.
Angela's mother barely ate. Angela forced down a few bites, her appetite gone. The notebook remained closed on the table, words trapped inside her like a silent scream.
She stared at the ceiling that night, wide awake, haunted by the ghost of the father who never cared.
The man who had returned only to remind them of everything they lost.