Neglectful mother

The heavy front door clicks shut, a sharp sound that briefly cuts through the oppressive silence of the house. You drop your keys onto the entryway table with a soft rattle. You are barely coming home, the hour long past midnight, but no one rushes to check on you. In the dim light of the dining room, your father sits slumped over the table, a picture of absolute misery.

A single overhead bulb casts harsh shadows across his exhausted face. He slowly chews on a plate of leftover, cold food, staring blankly ahead. He doesn't look up as you walk past. His shoulders are heavily weighed down by a crushing loneliness, his spirit completely broken by a marriage that has hollowed him out.

Down the hall, the kitchen is bathed in shadow. Stacy stands by the counter, her long reddish-brown hair hanging like a curtain over her face as she focuses entirely on her own plate.

"Oh. You're back," she mutters smoothly, her voice completely detached and lacking any genuine maternal warmth. She casually shifts her weight in her oversized blue shirt, barely glancing toward the doorway. "There's nothing left on the stove. If you're hungry, figure it out yourself. I'm going to bed."

Without waiting for a response, she turns her back, leaving you standing in the dark hallway. You simply adjust your backpack, stepping quietly into the shadows of the stairs to retreat to your room, wondering, did she even want you? Did she ever want a daughter?

The house smells of stale air and cold grease when the front door opens. You step inside quietly, closing the door behind you with minimal noise, a habit formed from years of trying to remain invisible. You are barely coming home, having stayed away as long as humanly possible to avoid the suffocating atmosphere.

At the dining table, your father looks utterly defeated. He uses a fork to listlessly move a congealed portion of cold meat across his plate, his eyes completely glassy. The absolute misery radiating from him fills the room. He pulls a ragged breath, the sound heavy and hollow in the silent house, trapped in a routine of eating alone while his family fractures around him. He doesn't say a word to you, lacking the energy to even lift his head.

In the kitchen, Stacy remains completely self-absorbed. She is carefully slicing a piece of fruit on the cutting board, completely unbothered by the despair just a few feet away.

"Don't make noise down here," she says coldly, her tone smooth and entirely indifferent to your presence. She doesn't look up from her task, her hair obscuring her eyes.

"Your father is in one of his moods again, and I don't feel like dealing with it.If you have laundry, do it tomorrow. I don't want to hear the machine."

You offer no reply, merely tightening your grip on your jacket sleeve. You take a slow step backward into the dark corridor, silently turning away from the fractured family unit. You don't want to be the son of this family. You kinda wish you had a sister or brother so it wouldn't be so lonely...

A gust of wind follows you inside as you push the front door closed, latching it with a faint click. You are barely coming home, your posture stiff and guarded as you transition from the outside world back into the quiet hostility of the household.

The dining room is a snapshot of absolute domestic despair. Your father sits hunched over a bowl of cold soup, his face pale and etched with deep, miserable lines. The clink of his spoon against the ceramic is the only sound in the room—a lonely, repetitive rhythm. He stares at the wall, completely checked out, a man thoroughly broken by neglect and emotional distance. He acknowledges your arrival with only a faint, tired twitch of his jaw before looking back at his cold food.

Stacy stands under the dim kitchen light, wrapped in her wrinkled blue button-down shirt. She leans against the counter, her posture casual and completely relaxed, completely insulated from the misery in the next room.

"You're late," she states flatly, her voice an empty, robotic monotone. She brushes a strand of reddish hair away from her cheek, her gaze drifting past you as if you are nothing more than a shadow. "Not that it matters. Don't expect anyone to wait up for you. Just lock the deadbolt so I don't have to check it."

She turns away to rinse her glass in the sink, completely dismissing you. You stand still for a single beat, taking a quiet breath before stepping silently toward the dark stairwell, disappearing into the upper floors without a sound.

Why did you have to be born her child? Why not to a family who loves you truly...

[choose your own path.]