The house smelled of old dust and stale coffee, the kind of smell that settles in when silence stretches too long. Morning sunlight filtered weakly through the thin curtains, touching the worn edges of the kitchen table where Angela sat, her fingers tracing the chipped wood absentmindedly. The cold mug in front of her had long since been forgotten. Her heart thudded in the quiet, weighted by the presence she could feel upstairs—the man who hadn't been around for so long, but who now sat in a room just above her.
Her father.
Angela hadn't seen him properly since that awkward morning, when the world seemed to stop the moment she opened the door and found him standing there, like a ghost from a life she barely remembered. He hadn't changed much. Same tired eyes, same rumpled clothes. But the man was different — colder, more distant. Like a shadow who lingered but didn't belong.
Her mother moved about the kitchen with a quiet stiffness, rinsing dishes, avoiding her gaze. The tension between them had settled in the room like a thick fog, one that neither knew how to clear.
Angela wanted to disappear.
"Where's breakfast?" her father's voice suddenly broke the silence, rough and impatient.
Her mother didn't look up. "It's on the table. Eggs and toast."
He grunted, sitting down heavily at the kitchen table, rubbing his jaw as if trying to wipe away an unpleasant memory.
Angela kept her eyes lowered, fingers twitching nervously.
Her mother finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper. "Why are you here? After all this time."
He didn't answer immediately. He stared into his plate, then muttered, "I'm tired. Tired of… everything."
"Tired of what?" her mother's voice sharpened. "Of leaving us? Of never being here when we needed you?"
He shrugged, eyes distant and unreadable. "I thought leaving was better. Thought maybe… maybe not being around was less pain."
Her mother's hands trembled slightly. "You think walking away caused less pain? Because it didn't. It just made us feel like we didn't matter."
Angela's throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to shake him awake from his careless retreat into exhaustion.
Her mother's voice softened, almost broken. "We loved each other," she said quietly, "I thought love could hold us all together. But his work—his money—it became the only thing he loved. And we… we were left behind."
Angela swallowed hard. That was the truth. Even if love had been there at first, it was buried under cold absences and broken promises.
Her father's laugh was bitter. "Love's easy to talk about when everything's fine."
"Well, it wasn't fine," her mother replied fiercely. "Not for us."
He looked up, eyes tired but sharp. "I'm not here to make it easy. I'm just here."
Angela watched the weight of regret in his posture—the man who'd been gone for so long, now standing in a house that had moved on without him.
Suddenly he stood abruptly, brushing past them toward the stairs. "I'm tired. I'm going to my room."
Her mother said quietly, "You don't get to just come back and act like this is normal."
He didn't answer. His footsteps faded.
The silence that returned was suffocating.
Hours passed. The house felt like a fragile shell, barely holding together the fragile hope and old wounds.
Angela tried to bury herself in her notebook, but her thoughts kept drifting to the storm waiting upstairs.
Later in the afternoon, the fragile peace shattered.
Her father sat on the couch, fiddling with the TV remote but making no sound. Her mother came in, face set hard.
"You can't just show up and pretend this is okay."
He didn't look at her. "I'm not pretending."
"You're not trying either."
"That's because there's nothing left to try for."
Her mother's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "You don't get to give up on us."
"I didn't give up. I just… left."
"By leaving, you broke everything."
"I didn't break us. We were broken long before I walked away."
Their voices rose, frustration and pain spilling over.
Angela stood nearby, heart pounding, wishing she could make it stop.
"Stop!" she finally shouted, voice cracking with desperation.
Her mother and father both turned, eyes burning with anger and hurt.
"You're making this harder than it has to be!" her father barked.
"You're the one making it hard by being here but never really here!" her mother shot back.
The shouting grew louder, sharper.
Angela's chest tightened; the words felt like knives cutting deeper.
She turned to leave the room, needing space, needing air.
But her foot caught on the edge of a rug near the stairs.
Her arms flailed to steady herself.
A sudden sharp pain exploded in her ankle as she tumbled backward, the world spinning as she fell down the first few steps.
The sound of her body hitting the hardwood floor echoed painfully.
Silence crashed over the house like a wave.
Her mother and father both froze, faces pale.
"Angela!" her mother cried, rushing to her side.
Her father stood, stunned, the usual coldness replaced by flickers of something raw—shock, maybe even fear.
Angela lay still, her breaths shallow and fast, eyes wide and unfocused.