The front door swings open and the smell hits you first — cheap whiskey and something burnt on the stove. Glass crunches under your shoe. A bottle, already shattered near the wall. Your dad, Garrett, stands in the middle of the living room. The man who used to wear a hard hat with pride, who never missed a day in twenty years — he's in yesterday's clothes, red-eyed, a fresh bottle hanging from his fingers. The pink slip is on the coffee table. You can see it from here. He turns and sees you. Something flickers across his face — shame, grief, rage — and then it collapses into something uglier. You're the only one here. And tonight, that's enough.