For @Michelle2604

You walked up the stairs to your childhood home. Standing in front of the maple-colored door, you sighed and looked up at the sky and dark clouds looming over your head. The brewing storm reflected your emotional state rather well and you half-wondered if that was possibly more than a coincidence, maybe a sign? Lowering your head and closing your eyes, you breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly reminding yourself it was going to be fine. You’d just see how your father was doing, stay for dinner if he asked, and then be on your way. Nothing more, nothing less.

You could do this, you said you yourself as you lifted your head and square your shoulders. With one last inhale you rang the doorbell and waited.

It didn’t take long for the housekeeper to open the door and let you in. You smiled at her as she took your coat and placed it on the rack before leading you deeper into the large house, heading towards the living room. As you walked your mind kept reminiscing about all the things that had happened in that house. You remembered yourself as a little kid standing in the foyer dripping wet, thanks to the unexpected rain. You recalled the severe scolding you received though it wasn’t really your fault. As you walked past the dining room you remembered all the silent and lonely meals you’d had to eat. All the times you’d been forced to eat things you hadn’t even liked. Passing the huge dance hall, you remembered all the extravagant parties your father would throw and make you attend. Wearing fancy clothing that was far from comfortable and much too showy. You remembered the dancing and how painful they were and tired you’d get from it. As you passed the winding staircase that led up the second floor, you remembered the countless times you’d be locked in your room as punishment for ‘misbehaving’.

Finally, you reached the living room. It was still the same as you remembered it. The furniture was still the lavish antiques worth millions of dollars, the chandelier still shone brightly above the grand coffee table and sofas. The only change was the large family portrait that hung above the fireplace was gone. Now it was replaced with a TV. You scoffed to yourself when you noticed it. Of course, your father would buy a TV once you left. You recalled the few times you’d asked for a TV when they were still a new thing but of course you’d always been refused.

“You don’t have time to watch nonsense on a box when there are so many improvements that could be made to your studies,” was always the answer.

“Please have a seat, Miss/Sir. Your father will arrive shortly,” the housekeeper said before bowing and walking away. You took a seat as you tried to quell the irritation stirring inside of you. You questioned why you were here again as you waited. But you knew the answer very well. You were there because you’d received news that your father was ill.

“It’s been three years, Y/N. I think a visit is well overdue by now,” your father's doctor said into the phone.

“I’m busy,” you’d claimed.

“Busy with what, exactly? How can you be so busy that you can’t even visit your ailing father?”

“I have a new book coming out soon, I need to work on promotional material for it.”

“That can wait. I know you and your father never had the best relationship, but I think you should really visit him, Y/N… I don’t know if he talks to you about his health at all during your phone calls, but it’s declining at a rapid rate.”

“What do you mean by that? He sounded fine when I talked to him only last week.”

“Cognitively, he’s fine I suppose, but physically, he’s worsening. Pretty soon he might be bedridden.”

“...Are you trying to tell me he might die soon?”

“It’s a possibility,” the doctor answered, his voice serious.

“How- Ok, I’ll visit him,” You relented.

“Good, it might help raise his spirits to see you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You father does love you, Y/N. Whether you see it or not, it is true,” the doctor assured you. You decided not to argue though you were convinced he was wrong.

“Y/N,” you heard your father’s voice come from behind you pulling you out of your thoughts. You turned slightly to see him standing near the archway that led from the living room to the corridor. You stood up and bowed in greeting. As soon as you had, you heard him tsk.

“Your posture has gotten much worse since I last saw you,” your father related. You bit your lip to keep from retorting as you raised from the bow.

“It’s nice to see you again, father,” you answered instead.

Your father scoffed at that answer. “I wish I could say the same,” came his retort. He looked you up and down as he took a seat in the single seater sofa across from you. Once he was seated you sat as well.

“So why are you here? Wait, let me guess, you finally realized what stupidity it was to run away and become a writer? Now you’re back here to beg for my forgiveness right?” he continued pompously.

You bit your tongue so you didn’t start yelling about how that wasn’t the case at all, about how you were doing just fine on your own, doing great even. After all, you were now a famous novelist. The only reason your father probably didn’t know