At almost eighteen years alive, I’ve had my fair share of bad days. Sometimes I’m anxious, or forget about a test, but the worst was when I was little. Ever since I could remember it was like this. Every single day.

   After hours of waiting I’d sit at the top of the staircase, staring at the entrance hall door. Sometimes he’d be on time, others early, but on really bad days, he’d be late. He would stagger in through the door, with a bit of a limp, or hop. He’d be silent, as if he was holding something back. I was always so excited. “Dad!” I’d yell, and run down to hug him. His hands were always full with lunchbox and tools. He’d grunt and give a feint hug back.

   When dinner came, things became sour. He’d always have a white can in his hand, with ‘Budweiser’ written across it. I had always been a picky eater. Whenever I didn’t finish my meal it’d be just another bad day.

   Each time I found myself in my room whispering to myself, “Tomorrow will be better” over and over again. I had been lying to myself for over eleven years. What made things worse, what made the bad days really stand out, were the good ones. The times we’d play video games together, or go fishing, or play cards. The days when he chose to be nice, when his glass was full of water, not “apple juice”.

   It was those days, some of my fondest memories, which make me want to forget even more than before. It wasn’t my body he was hurting, it was my heart.