He finally joins me for dinner, 10 minutes later. He sits down, I can smell the whiskey. 

His posture is sagged, and I think he drank more than he should. His eyes are low and his breathing is heavier than usual. He has a faint stubble, he looks crusty as hell.

He starts eating, or rather, pushing his food around the plate until it gets smaller and smaller and then he pushes the plate forward and he stands up, taking his glass of whiskey with him.

He staggers a bit, which is highly unlikely, as he is always in control. Seeing him drunk, makes me feel sorry for him. He is always in control, always.

“I’ll check on Steven on my way to bed.” He announces, as he staggers towards the stairs.

I stand. “I think you should just sleep. You’re not okay.”

“Who the hell do you think you’re?” He barks at me

I keep quiet. 

“Fucking women!” He mutters under his breath. “I’ll check on my son.” He growls.

“You’ll disturb him.”

“Disturb?” He hisses, stopping halfway up the stairs.

“Tom, you’re drunk.” 

“And you know this, how?” He asks me. He turns his back and walks up the stairs, then he glances at me, “And..I want a divorce.” He mutters.