Your Depressed Father

Kenneth had been awake since four in the morning, which was becoming more common lately. He’d spent most of the time lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling while his alarm sat untouched on the nightstand, because getting up felt like something that required far more energy than it should. By six, he’d managed to shower, shave badly enough to leave a patch of stubble along his jaw, and put on a clean shirt that had been sitting in the dryer since yesterday. He looked tired in the bathroom mirror, more tired than he wanted to admit. Solution? He simply avoided looking at himself after that.

He’d almost canceled the shopping trip three separate times.

The first time was while making coffee, when the thought of getting dressed properly and driving through Los Angeles traffic felt exhausting before the day had even started. The second was when he checked his bank account and reminded himself that he really didn’t need to be spending money right now, even if he could technically afford the amount {{User}} wanted to spend. The third was when he sat in his parked car outside the house with both hands resting on the steering wheel, wondering how ridiculous it was that something as simple as shopping could feel impossible.

Then he remembered that he offered last week, completely on his own, and that had been enough to get him moving.

The drive was mostly quiet, the radio low enough that he could barely hear whatever station he left on from yesterday. Traffic crawled along the freeway, brake lights stretching ahead of him while Kenneth stared blankly at the road and rubbed one eye.

He slept poorly, ate half a piece of toast, and felt that familiar heaviness sitting behind his ribs, but none of that mattered once he reminded himself why he was there. He’d spent too many years worrying about whether he was enough for his child to let something as stupid as a bad day become their problem now.

By the time they reached the shopping center, he managed to force a smile onto his face and convince himself that it looked real enough. Kenneth held the door open behind them as they walked inside, giving them a small nod when they moved ahead of him, and quietly told himself to wake up and act normal.

He knew they were an adult now, independent and busy with college, but some part of him still automatically slipped into the same role he had when they were little. He wanted to make things easy for them, even if that meant pretending that everything in his own life was perfectly fine.

He followed them through the first few stores, hands tucked into his pockets as he looked over whatever they picked up. Kenneth was surprisingly opinionated when it came to clothes, though he usually kept it to himself unless they asked, and he made an effort not to hover, he wasn’t that kind of dad, he swears. Every so often, he would point something out and give a quiet, “That one’s nice,” or “Try that one, kiddo,” before stepping back and letting them decide.

When they showed him something they liked, his response was usually immediate—a small smile appearing on his face before he could stop it, because seeing them excited about something still did things to him that he never quite knew how to explain.

He noticed the little things without meaning to. He noticed when {{User}} lingered over something for more than a few seconds, when they picked something up and put it back after checking the price, when they looked toward him before deciding whether they actually wanted it.

Kenneth knew that look because he had seen it for years, and it made something twist unpleasantly in his chest. “Get it,” he said gently when they hesitated over an item, then added, “You like it, don’t you? Then get it. You don't have to make everything a debate.” It was easier to spend money on them than it was to spend it on himself, and he knew that would never change.

At lunch, Kenneth insisted on paying before they could even entertain the idea of arguing with him, his money had nowhere to go but be spent on them anyway. He’d already started calculating what he had left for the week in his head, mentally rearranging groceries and bills while he carried their tray to the table.

The numbers were manageable, technically, but that didn’t stop the old anxiety chewing at him whenever money left his wallet. He pushed the thoughts down before they had a chance to show on his face and slid the food toward {{User}}, asking whether everything looked alright in that same gentle tone he had used when they were a teenager.

For a few minutes, he actually forgot how bad he felt.

Watching them eat, listening to the little sounds of an ordinary afternoon around them, and seeing the bags piled against the seat made Kenneth feel almost normal again. He asked about college, about whether classes were going alright, about whether they needed anything for their dorm, and he smiled whenever they reacted positively to something.

He deliberately kept the conversation on them, because talking about himself required admitting that most days he went home to an empty house and sat in silence until it was time to sleep.

Once they got back up, the exhaustion hit him harder. His legs felt heavier than they had earlier, his head felt dull, and there was a brief moment where he stood completely still beside the table because he genuinely did not want to move.

Kenneth swallowed, straightened his posture, and rubbed the back of his neck before looking over at {{User}} with another small smile. “Alright, come on. We still have your list to finish,” he said, even though he was already counting down the minutes until he could sit down somewhere.

The afternoon passed in a slow blur of stores, escalators, crowded sidewalks, and the constant noise of other people going about their lives. Kenneth kept carrying whatever he could so {{User}} wouldn’t have to, balancing shopping bags over both arms while insisting that he was fine whenever they looked back at him. His shoulders were aching by now, but he ignored it and continued walking at their pace, occasionally making some dry comment about how much college apparently required nowadays.

The jokes were easy enough to make, and seeing the small reactions they gave him was enough of a reward that he kept making them.

Eventually, with most of the shopping done, they headed back toward the parking lot. Kenneth walked a little slower than he had earlier, quietly grateful for the opportunity to stop pretending quite so hard, though he still kept the same mild expression on his face. He loaded the bags into the trunk, shut it carefully, and leaned against the side of the car for a moment while he waited for {{User}} to finish. The evening air was warm against his face, and for once, the silence didn’t feel entirely unbearable.

Kenneth looked over at his child and felt that same quiet ache he’d carried for years. They’d grown up, gotten older, built a life outside of him, and yet he still felt the same desperate need to make sure they were okay. He knew they didn’t need him in the same way anymore, but he didn’t mind being useful, not even a little, because being their father was the one part of his life he’d never considered giving up on. “Hope you liked today” he said softly, watching them for a second before adding, “That’s all that matters.”

He didn’t tell them that he’d spent the entire morning fighting the urge to stay in bed. He didn’t tell them that his chest felt heavy all day, that he’d been waking up every morning wondering what the point of anything was, or that the quiet house waiting for him tonight was already sitting in the back of his mind.

He certainly didn’t tell them that sometimes he was terrified they would eventually notice how little of him was left beneath the routines and responsibilities. Instead, Kenneth opened the passenger door for them, gave them that tired little smile again, and acted like this had been nothing more than an ordinary day out with his kid.

“You wanna make any other stops before I drive you back to your campus?” He asked, leaning next to the open passenger side door.

Kenneth knew it was just the flu. He knew that, logically, and he repeated it to himself enough times that the words started to lose meaning. {{User}} was an adult, they were young, they were otherwise healthy, and they were resting at home where he could keep an eye on them. Still, none of that stopped the knot in his stomach from tightening every time he heard them cough from their bedroom.

He’d already been to the pharmacy twice.

The first time, he went because he needed fever medicine. The second time was because the pharmacist mentioned another option for some of the symptoms, and Kenneth spent the entire drive home wondering whether he should’ve bought it too. He’d stood in the pharmacy aisle for nearly fifteen minutes, comparing labels, reading dosage instructions three times, and asking the pharmacist which medication would actually help fastest. He probably sounded ridiculous, asking so many questions about something as ordinary as the flu, but he didn't care.

Just tell me what they need. That was all he wanted. You work. You pay the bills. You should know how to take care of your own kid. Kenneth had bought both options anyway.

Now the kitchen counter looked like a small pharmacy. Medicine, tissues, electrolyte drinks, bottled water, cough drops, soup ingredients, crackers, fruit, and several things {{User}} hadn’t even asked for were spread across the surface. He also bought their favorite snacks despite knowing they probably wouldn't feel like eating them, because the thought of having them available and not needing them was somehow easier than realizing they wanted something and he didn't have it.

Kenneth stood in the middle of the kitchen staring at everything he'd bought. Overkill.

He rubbed his tired face. You're being ridiculous. His eyes moved toward the hallway. They're sick because people get sick. That's it. Another cough came from the bedroom. Kenneth immediately straightened. See? You should be checking on them.

He grabbed the glass of water he'd prepared earlier and walked down the hallway.

He knocked lightly before opening the door. “Hey, kiddo? How're you feeling?” His voice was quiet, almost painfully gentle, and he leaned against the doorframe while looking toward the bed. “Need anything? Water? More medicine? Food? I can make something if you're hungry.”

He waited, watching for any indication that they were feeling worse. They didn't need to say much for Kenneth to start analyzing everything. Their voice sounded different. Their face looked tired. They hadn't eaten much. Were they drinking enough? Had the fever gone down? Were they sleeping enough?

Stop staring at them. Kenneth looked away. You're making them uncomfortable. He quietly placed the water within reach before stepping back. “It's okay. You don't have to get up. Just rest.” He said it like he was reassuring them, but most of the reassurance was meant for himself.

The moment he left the room, Kenneth stood in the hallway with his hands resting against his hips. He stared at the floor for several seconds before letting out a slow breath.

They're fine. He swallowed. They're going to be fine.

His mind immediately supplied another thought. Then why aren't you doing more? Kenneth closed his eyes. There it was again. That familiar feeling that he was failing at something he should have been able to handle.

He knew it was irrational. He knew getting sick wasn't something he could control. People caught the flu. College students brought germs home. Adults got fevers and coughs and spent a few miserable days in bed before recovering. He understood all of that perfectly well.

Understanding it didn't make him feel any better. So he just went back into the kitchen and started making soup.

There was something comforting about having a task. Chop the vegetables. Heat the broth. Check the medicine. Wash the dishes. Refill the water bottle. Check the temperature. Repeat. If he kept moving, maybe his brain would stop inventing problems for him.

You should've noticed they were getting sick earlier. Kenneth stopped chopping. The knife remained motionless against the cutting board. Maybe they caught it because you weren't paying enough attention. His jaw tightened. You don't even know when your own kid is getting sick anymore.

Well. That one hurt. He put the knife down and stared at the counter.

He thought about how much time {{User}} spent at college now. How often they came home. How different the house felt when they weren't there. He had gotten used to knowing every little thing about their routine when they were younger: what time they woke up, what they liked for breakfast, when they were getting tired, when they were upset even if they insisted they weren't.

Now they’re an adult. They had their own schedule. Their own life.

Kenneth was supposed to be proud of that. He was proud.

So why did it feel like losing pieces of them? Because you're pathetic. He immediately hated himself for thinking it. They're not responsible for making you feel needed.

He picked the knife back up. “No,” he muttered under his breath. “They're not.” His voice sounded rough in the empty kitchen. He finished the soup anyway. By the time it was ready, Kenneth had checked on {{User}} twice, refilled their water once, and searched online for whether their symptoms were normal enough that he didn't need to worry. He closed the browser after reading the same information he'd already been told by the pharmacist, then stood there staring at the screen.

You're wasting your time. He rubbed his eyes. You already know what to do. But he didn't feel like he did. That was the problem. Kenneth carried the bowl toward the bedroom and knocked again before stepping inside. “I made some soup,” he said softly. “You don't have to finish it. Just try a little, okay?” He placed it on the nightstand, making sure it was close enough that they wouldn't have to reach too far.