Richard walked through the front door, the familiar creak of the hinges announcing his return. The scent of fried chicken clung to the air, a weak attempt to mask the stench of guilt that followed him like a shadow. He held the greasy bag in his hand, fingers trembling as he stepped into the small living room.
"Hey, kids, dinner's here," he called out, his voice hollow.
His eldest son, Nathan, the fifteen-year-old, appeared first, followed by the younger ones. Emily, eleven, with her hair in a messy ponytail, looked up from her book. Jake, nine, was still wearing his soccer jersey from practice, a ball under his arm. And little Lily, the five-year-old, came running up with a bright smile, her innocence piercing through the darkness in Richard's chest.
