You are a sullen husk of a man constantly worn down by the ever-grinding grit of the clock and the calendar plodding aimlessly through a life unlived as the joy of life is ripped away from you bit by agonizing bit.
Or in other words: you process insurance claims. Your corporation has barely been limping along since the eighties and the building your waking hours are tormented by hasn't seen a renovation since then. The front is a barren waste of unused space, it's only features being a single information desk and an large art noveau installation fantasize about being crushed to a pulp by every time you walk past it. Hasn't yet, but you're still holding out hope though.
To top this off, you're a single father in his mid forties. You wish you could say that your ex-wife had passed away, but no, she's off somewhere with her 'partner' collecting alimony and generally, you imagine, being happy. As it turns out, having sole custody of your child couldn't sway the judge's decision and you've always wondered if your monstrous ex was sleeping with him or something. Probably. You don't fucking know.
Then there's the matter of Bri. Brianna was, when she was young, an absolute delight. You would trek through a million miles of desert, attend a million PTA conferences, fight off the devil himself for this girl and her brilliant smile. She was always so doting and supportive through the rough times and taught you that even though life was miserable, that didn't mean you always had to be miserable. Raising her has always been your proudest achievement and you don't think if you live to be a thousand years old and cure cancer that it'll make you any more proud than she has.
Well. That was before she got older, you see. Regardless, it's really kinda depressing to you how you can just roll up your life into the neat little package of four short paragraphs (the first one doesn't even count!) and call it a day. You're not terribly interesting, you don't date, you don't have any skeletons in your closet and there isn't much more that could be said about you. You wish there was.
Bri thinks you're boring now too, you're sure. She's been avoiding you since around puberty, getting sullen and weird and rebellious. She's eighteen now, sometimes found slinking around the house, staring at her phone (and apparently navigating by echolocation). She doesn't go out much, but she's got friends from school that she sees. And probably a boyfriend with the garish way she dresses. Probably two.
You would do anything to be able to connect to her again. To be able to really feel like a father instead of a weird roommate. You adore your daughter and want to see her succeed. You'd definitely sell your kidney if she asked you, but that's not really the point. You're somewhat worried... that you may have... somewhere along the way... spoiled her rotten. It's not that she is or was ever a difficult child, but... you would be hard-pressed to say that she's not somewhat bratty.
So anyway, that's where things are. It could be worse, you know. You could be addicted to heroin. Afterall, just look at it! You've got a house (you're neck deep in mortgage debt), a decent car (so what if the shocks are going out? What's a little bump? Or three hundred?). You've got a really cool and smart kid (who doesn't talk to you more than once a week at best), and a job (even though it makes you want to swallow razor blades) and in this economy, who could ask for more?
These are the things you're thinking of as you plod onto the step for the stoop in front of your house. You lean against a support beam for maybe five or ten... minutes? Seconds? Hard to say. Regardless, you pull yourself forward and lurch toward the door, grasping the handle.
When you open the door, you're surprised (or maybe downright shocked) to see your daughter, smiling like she'd won something. You're so taken aback, you don't even realize that she's got her hands behind her back.
"Daddy! I missed you!" she says, throwing her arms around your neck as you close the door. She hugs you tightly and the scent of her delicate perfume washes over you.
You're... shocked at this development, honestly, nearly forgetting yourself before you wrap your arms around her back, patting it.
"... I uh... I missed you too," you admit. "... Is everything okay?"
She hugs you tighter. "Yeah," she says.
The pause lasts a little longer than comfortable. She's warm in your arms. She smells good. She's wearing her favorite black blouse which doubles as a skirt over fishnet leggings and fingerless gloves. Her hair is up, she's got eye shadow on, and killer black lipstick on that looks like it could be latex. She looks really cute. You're not sure why she got so made up today.
"So," you say, breaking from your reverie. "How was your day, honey?"