It was 2004 when my mother departed this Earth. I can’t remember the day it happened, the funeral, how my father told me the news, any of it, even though I was nearly six years old at the time.

I can’t remember her face. It faded away into a nebulous sludge, like old memories tend to do. It washed away, lost into the deep abyss of time, reawakened only by dusty old photos stashed away in drawers that rarely open. When I look at those photos, they seem wrong, altered somehow. Her hair is choppier than the image in my head. Her eyes are smaller; her smiles seems forced. I wonder if she was ever happy.

I know my father was happy. I don’t know it from the past. I don’t look back and see him, smiling, having fun; there is no montage of perfect memories ingrained into my brain. But there was a change in him, since then. It started harmlessly, a normal man mourning his dead wife. But it transitioned into something darker, more ominous. I’m not sure how or when the change occurred. I was never aware of it, not until this moment.

Now, I stare down at him. He is sprawled across our living room sofa. There’s an empty bottle of Jack lying sideways on the carpet, not so much as a drop left inside. Next to it, a puddle of acrid vomit.

His face is sallow and pale. His eyes carry deep blueish bags beneath them. His dark brown hair is overgrown, shaggy, sticking to the sweat that glistens on his forehead. The lines on his face seem deeper now, fed for years by his worry and pain.

His eyes lazily open, and he slurs my name.

I sigh, and diligently begin my work. I clean the carpet. I throw away the empty bottle of Jack. And, when I’m done, I take a blanket, and drape it over him. I tuck him in, much like a child. The motion is so familiar to me. And it’s in this very moment that I realise: this is not my father. This is a child, and I am his parent.

“You have to stop this, Dad,” I dare to whisper.

He says nothing. His silence cuts me deeper than any words ever could.

“You’ve missed so much. My piano recitals, my dance competitions. You’re never there. You never have been.”

His face twists.

“When are you going to just... let me be the child for once?”

When he remains silent, I sigh, and head towards the door.

His words stop me in my tracks: “I’m sorry.”

I turn to him, speechless.

“I know I’m not the perfect parent. But losing your mum was...” He trails off. There’s a moment of jarring quietness between us. “I’m not perfect,” he whispers. “But... parents are humans too.”