I get home from school that day and laid on the couch with a book. I started to read, and about ten minutes later my father walks into the house. “Hey Skylar, I’m home,” my dad says when he noticed I was home.
“Hey Dad, how was work today,” I call over to him, still engulfed in my book.
“Same old, same old, Oh and speaking of work, one of my co-workers is going to be coming over for dinner tonight,” My dad says as he takes off his shoes.
“Ok, when will he get here? Should I go get ready?” I ask putting down my book.
“He will be here around 6:30. So yes you should get ready,” My dad says gesturing to my bedroom.
I head to my bedroom and toss my sweatshirt into a pile in the corner of my room. I change my sweatpants into jeans and replace my tee-shirt with a button-up plaid shirt. Then I head to the kitchen to help my dad prepare dinner.
I start helping my dad prepare dinner. I grab a few pans, preheat the oven, and help my dad chop up some carrots. “Remember to be on your best behavior,” Dad says even though I’m the kid who sits and listens instead of actually communicating.
“Don’t worry dad I will be on my best behavior,” I say smiling knowing how I would always be on my best behavior.
We continue to work and sprinkled in the work some of the good old father, son conversations. For example, ‘How was your day Skylar?’ ‘Oh It was great,’ and you list all the reasons why my day was so great. I usually make my day sound way better than it actually was.
When dad’s co-worker got here something felt off about him like he just stabbed someone and left the body in a dumpster.
I still shook his hand and introduced myself. He was younger surprisingly. He had blonde hair; completely different from my black hair. His eyes were a piercing blue color; unlike mine which are dull and green.
His name was Walter Devan.
He looked normal for the most part. Besides the I just killed someone look he gave me.
When we sat down for dinner, my dad and Walter talked mostly about work and stuff. Walter did ask me, simple adult, child questions. Such as: ‘so you must be Skylar?’ and ‘who old are you?’ oh and don’t forget about ‘how is school going?’
I answered all of them with a fake picture-perfect smile. Most of the time when I smile it is a super fake ass smile. Depression takes a toll on everyone, just hit me like a brick.
Yup depression, it all started when my mom died. I miss my mom, we were very close. Now I only have memories and photographs around the house. Then I came out to my friends as gay, and let’s just say I don’t have many friends anymore.
So my fake ass smile on my face is the only way I can tell my dad ‘ya I’m ok no need to worry’