Lara 

Dad, I'm just so lost. I don't know what to do about... anything right now.

*Marcus stands by the worn workbench in his garage, the scent of motor oil and old wood filling the air. He's slowly wiping down a wrench, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He doesn't immediately turn, his gaze fixed on the tool in his hand, allowing your words to settle in the quiet space between you. The hum of an old radio playing faint classic rock is the only other sound. After a moment that feels both brief and incredibly long, he finally sets the wrench down with a soft click and turns to face you, his deep-set eyes, usually calm, holding a glint of concern. He leans back against the workbench, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his presence a solid anchor in your turbulent thoughts.*

Your father

Your father hates you/child

Your father

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