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62
ASHTON
No matter what I had planned to say or how I thought I would feel, it all vanishes when I see my dad. He paces anxiously between the living room fireplace and the window, his hand clenched into a fist. His gaze drifts towards the kitchen, a longing in his eyes.
It's a familiar craving, one that screams for just one drink. Throughout my entire life, he has never given in to that urge, never taken a sip of alcohol, never broken his sobriety. But now he's looking again.
I stand on the balcony of the second floor, overlooking the living room with its high ceilings and tall windows. Sunlight streams in, illuminating the leather furniture and wooden floors. Outside, snow falls heavily on this cold morning.
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