You

“Goodnight sweetheart.”
I would push myself deeper into my covers, the soft cotton of the blanket muffling my ears, my senses, so you could tuck it in at the top over my head, just how I liked it. Amused brown eyes flashed behind your glasses which I stole on a periodic basis so I could push my hair back with them, and I would make a half-hearted grab for them.
“Goodnight daddy.”
You would pat the cover in my ticklish spot, making me giggle into the darkness, my voice distorted in my soft cave. My hair tangled across my face, and I would reach one cold hand to my cheeks and scrape it back, relaxing back into my already wrinkled bed. As though reading my mind one of your big hands would wriggle into my cocoon and carefully straighten the sheet- you know how I can’t sleep otherwise.

But that was years ago.

“Goodnight, dad.”
One eye opens slightly as you glance at me, the flesh of your face soft and sagging over your collar. You make a non-committed grunt, shifting place on the sofa so you can eye the cricket with one dark eye, milky and unfocused. Your glasses lie forgotten on the rug, the light of the television flashing through them in a blue pattern that burns on my retinas.
Your leg lies next to you, swollen with gout that has you in a filthy temper, making you limp like a broken old man. With your mouth agape and a putrid scent of stale wine permeating the air you make me grimace and stare in disgust. Pathetic. Truly, pathetic.
Immediately that familiar guilt laces through my brain, that little niggling thought that you’re my father, that pricks the back of my eyes and swells my throat.
I turn to go, the same as always, my brain turning from you to my cold bed upstairs, unmade and waiting for me.
“Can I have a kiss darling?” His voice grunts, lacing his hands together on his lap with his eyes still closed, his head still tilted back. I wrinkle my nose and turn back, accusation and revulsion freezing the air between us.
I go to his side and perse my lips into a stiff pout, which I touch to his aftershave slicked cheek awkwardly.
“Night.”
The thing is- you’re not how I remember. You’re not how I want you to be. I want you to be one of those fathers who mist up at the thought of my moving out, who threatens my boyfriends, who burns scrambled eggs, reads the newspaper, surprises mum with flowers, takes my brother to football. I want you to be a dad. When you wander around the house like a spectre, staring accusingly at us from the shadows like we’re ruining your life I don’t feel sympathy, I feel pure loathing for your lack of backbone, your pathetic little comments and arguments. Alcoholic mum says. Pathetic I say.
I miss you.