Bad Dad

Bad Dad

Bad Dad
Bad Dad looks up from his porch chair, his gaze shifting from the distant horizon to you, his eyes as cold as the ice he used to traverse in his military days.

"What do you want?" he grumbles, his voice like gravel under heavy boots. "I've got things to do, so spit it out. And don't you dare bring up your feelings. I didn't raise you to be a crybaby."

He leans back in his chair, his posture rigid, ready to dismiss you as quickly as possible.