By the time I arrived home, it was already 7:00 pm. I quietly opened the door and slid off my shoes at the doorway.
"Ah! Welcome home, Son!"
The voice that welcomed me this time wasn't Mom's but my loud, cheerful Dad's. He was in the living room doing his usual stretches when he noticed the door open and stopped to greet me.
I gave him a quick nod of acknowledgment as I walked past him toward the stairs.
"What were you doing out so late?" he asked, his tone genuinely clueless.
From the kitchen, I heard the sharp, disappointed click of Mom's tongue. I couldn't see her expression since her back was facing me as she focused on the stove.
Personally, though, I didn't really blame Dad for not knowing. I stopped doing that a long time ago.
"I was practicing for sports day," I said.
Dad yelped in surprise, spinning his whole body toward me with an exaggerated expression. "Already?! Isn't it a bit too early for it to start?!"
I stopped just before my foot touched the first step of the stairs. I could have continued this conversation as I headed to my room—like I always did—but a part of me thought: What if, just this one time, I stay downstairs for a little bit?
With a quiet sigh, I retracted my foot from the stairs and leisurely walked over to the kitchen. I grabbed a cold cup of water and then took a seat on the couch next to Dad.
Dad didn't rush me. In fact, he didn't say anything. He just continued to watch my movements with a wide, childish smile.
I sat there for a moment, thinking about what to say. I always thought I was good at socializing, but for the first time in a long time, I didn't know what to even talk about. With each microsecond that passed, I could feel the stiffness in the atmosphere increasing, so I settled for the most basic topic.
"The sports festival starts Friday of next week, so it's almost a week and a half away," I explained.
Dad's head tilted slightly downward, breaking eye contact with me for a brief moment. "Is that so… I didn't even notice."
Some might call that neglectful, but that was just who he was.
I took a sip, then let the glass rest loosely in my hand. "Are you going to come this year?" I asked, another basic topic.
Maybe if it were a couple of years ago, I would've been anxious about his answer, but that wasn't me now. By this point, I was already used to it.
Dad chuckled, a sound tinged with a familiar, cowardly guilt. "Sorry… but I don't think I can. You know–"
"Work and stuff," I finished for him. I offered a thin, knowing smile. "Is that right?"
Dad's hands froze in mid-air. For just a moment, something flickered in his eyes—melancholy, maybe. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual obnoxious, contagious laugh.
"Hihihi! You know me so well!"
"Of course I do," I said, taking a sip of the cold water. "I'm just you—but better in every way. And more handsome."
Dad scoffed, clearly offended, and took an exaggerated, 'intimidating' step toward me. "Excuse me?! You won't ever be as good as me. Hihihi—"
His laugh was cut off.
"Shut up. I have a headache."
The voice was soft. Angelic. Like it always was. Yet, in its very depths was an undeniable, ominous pressure.
The air in the living room rotted in an instant. Dad's smile vanished, becoming more of a strained, yet fearful grimace. His head slowly turned toward the kitchen. I followed his gaze easily, but that didn't stop the faint pressure building up in my chest.
Mom stood there. Her back was still turned toward us, one hand resting on the counter, the other loosely gripping the utensil in the pot.
The calm, soothing presence she always carried was gone. In its place was something hollow, something that filled me with a familiar sense of dread that I had almost forgotten.
Looking back, it was strange. She hadn't greeted me when I came home. Even if she was busy cooking, she never failed to step away from the kitchen and welcome me home in the living room.
Now I understood why. 'I have a headache.' That one sentence told me everything. It had been a while since I'd last heard it.
I was aware that Mom always had a headache to a certain degree. That was one of the reasons why our kitchen counter was riddled with medication. Still, she'd never demand that we stop talking altogether. She'd only ever do that when the pain was unbearable.
I glanced at Dad. His posture had dipped slightly. His smile was still there—but it didn't reach his eyes anymore.
He noticed me looking and gave me a small wink before leaning toward my ear. "It was good talking to you," he whispered. "But you should head upstairs. I'll deal with it—"
"Are you guys talking badly about me behind my back?" Mom interrupted, her soft voice deteriorating into something icy and cold.
Dad flinched, his whole body tensing up. His eyes frantically darted around the room—until they landed on me. It was only then that he managed to recover, forcing out a weak, playful laugh.
"Hihihi. No, we aren't. I was just telling him that he should go to his room so we could give you some space."
Mom didn't turn around. She just kept stirring the pot with a precise, mechanical motion. "Dinner will be ready in an hour. All of you, go upstairs. Come down when it's done."
Dad nodded firmly, even though she couldn't see him, and headed toward the stairs. As he passed, he nudged my elbow, urging me along.
I set my unfinished glass of water on the table and followed. Even after we reached the top, neither of us said a word. All we could do was retreat to our rooms.
Just before Dad was about to head into his, he stopped and turned around, giving me one last wide, obnoxious smile.
It didn't quite land, but out of respect for his effort, I responded with a small nod.
Satisfied with that, he went inside and shut the door, leaving me alone in the hallway. With nothing else left to do, I retreated into my own room.