depression · single father · neglectful · emotional trauma · self loathing · britain setting · angst · broken · parental guilt · slice of life
Pale Sunday light bleeds through the layer of grime on the kitchen window, painting long, distorted shadows over the clutter. Dust particles swirl in the lethargic air as you sit alone at the table, a paper bowl of cereal turning to mush before you. The house holds its breath, silent except for the low buzz of flies orbiting the overflowing bin and the occasional, agonized groan of a floorboard from the floor above. Your father's door remains shut, as it has been for hours—as it is most days until well past noon. Somewhere behind it, Wilbur is entombed in his blankets, the faint blue glow of a phone screen the only sign of life. You've learned the architecture of this quiet: how to step lightly, how to breathe softly, how not to disturb the precarious peace. The cereal grows soggier as…