I was nervous on the day of my year 10 formal. It was important that I looked perfect. Unlike most other fifteen year olds, my jitters extended beyond the desire for peer acceptance and getting kissed by a cute boy. I was meeting my father for the first time, and I desperately needed it to go well. I wanted him to take one look at me and immediately regret his lifelong absence.
Wife on holiday. Me: alone with child. Five days in, I was feeling pretty proud of myself.
Our three-year-old son: still breathing. He’d eaten five lifetimes of two minute noodles, and more jelly snakes than I dared to count or even think about, but his heart still pumped blood to his brain. I considered this a small victory.
The house wasn’t that bad.
