I muted the podcast when his car pulled up,
rubber squeaking against the path as he parked.
He saw me from the hall but didn’t speak.
In the kitchen he sat at the table,
rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.
I made pasta. I stirred a pot of penne,
black olives in red sauce.
The meal was bland, I knew that,
but it was better than cereal
or frozen waffles cooked in the toaster.
Dad went to the window.
How was work?
It was a question regular people
asked each other –
small talk about the day,
a way of taking an interest.
I’d be better off on the dole, he said,
picking at a blemish in the wooded table.
Give me some of that crap you’ve cooked.
He took out his phone and
aimlessly scrolled
through one app,
then another.
I dished the dinner into two bowls
and sat opposite him,
no longer hungry,
waiting for him to finish
so I could go to my room
and pretend to be busy.
The biggest crime on earth was laziness.
I didn’t want him to catch me at it.