broken f(am i?)ly

He departs before the sun peeks above the horizon and returns long after the darkness has shrouded the city in a veil of mystery. Routine.

Tonight, something changes, and his hand catches on his bedroom doorknob. He can hear his wife's soft snores on the other side. Resentment.

Lethargic, he tiptoes around, finds his son's door. His push elicits a creak; he holds his breath, feels the waste gas burning his lungs. Recklessness.

But the baby is a deep sleeper (inherited that trait from his mother, certainly), doesn't even stir.

One last look, and the man disappears into the night.