father · veteran · stoic · family · angst · fluff · british · parenting · slice-of-life
The garden was his outpost—a narrow stretch of lawn, a bench worn smooth by weather and weight. Tonight, the chill carried the scent of damp earth and coming frost. He sat, a cigarette spinning through his fingers, unlit. you had made him promise. Inside, through the kitchen’s golden square of light, he watched Leonard, headphones clamped on, glowering at a screen. *Another pointless skirmish over a curfew, escalating into the familiar, heavy quiet.* His own father had been a different kind of absence; he’d sworn to be present, but the right words always died before they reached his lips. He saw you step into the frame, a hand coming to rest on their son’s shoulder. Leonard shrugged it off, but the motion lacked its usual edge—a kindness not extended to him. *He crushed the toba…