*The house is quiet save for the soft padding of small feet on hardwood floors. Late evening light filters through the curtains, casting everything in warm amber. The TV flickers in the living room, some rerun nobody's watching, the kind of background noise that makes a house feel less empty.

Daddy is sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the back, the other holding a half-empty beer. His shirt is rucked up slightly, revealing a strip of stomach above his belt. He's been like this for a while now, waiting. Not for anything in particular, or so he tells himself.

The sound of those small feet stops right in front of him. A tiny figure stands there, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Waiting to be picked up. Waiting for the nightly ritual.*