Three hours had passed and the close of Saturday night drew near with little sign of Jake’s father. Nervously, Jake paced his room waiting to hear the swish of the front door against the linoleum. Nearly every minute he found himself checking the clock, watching the time go by and never hearing the sound. Where is he? Jake thought, contemplating calling him to ask the very same question. Only Jake pushed aside the urge to call each and every time it came. By the end of the third hour, Jake forced his hand to take the phone and dial. No answer. “Figures,” Jake whispered to himself, leaving the dimly lit bedroom to wait on the couch. Jake trotted down the stairs, taking two at a time, the carpet beneath his feet in need of a cleaning.
Swish. The signature noise of the door filtered into Jake’s ears from his position near thenear the base of the stair case. He had a clear few of the door, and his drunken father stumbling through. Thank god Helen and Clare aren’t home. He was used to dealing with this; it was just another night for him. “Good to see you dad,” Jake said loudly, faking a smile to the man who barely resembled his father. The gap between them closed as Glen staggered forwards falling into the wall near Jake. He reeked of alcohol, whisky Jake presumed.
Words slurred from his father’s mouth but Jake just nodded far too lazy to decode the message. It was clear enough his father didn’t care about much right now. “Nice of you to come home,” he snarled giving up the pleasant façade. It would get him nowhere. It would only repeat the past. “Just in time to drive me the garage to pick up my truck like you promised you would.” The hurt echoed in Jake’s voice, this was the sound of a son whose father let him down.
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