My name is David Mitchell.
I'm 42 years old. Father of two. And six months ago, I was becoming the man I swore I'd never be.
My father.
Same tired eyes. Same soft belly. Same exhaustion that makes everything feel impossible.
Dad was a drinker. Not falling-down drunk, but consistent. Beer with lunch. Scotch after work.
Wine with dinner. Every single day.
I learned early not to disturb him after 7 PM. That's when he'd plant himself on the couch.
He died at 62 from liver disease.
I promised myself I'd never be like that.
And I'm not. I drink way less than he ever did. Maybe 3-4 times a week.
Nothing during the week, just weekends mostly.
But I'm getting the same symptoms.
The exhaustion. The weight gain. The constant sense of heaviness.
My son was surrounded by LEGOs on the living room floor. Building alone.
"Just had a long day, buddy. Maybe later, okay?"
He nodded and went back to building.
And something in my chest cracked.
Because I'd said those exact words to my father when I was eight. And he'd said the same thing back.
"Maybe later, champ."
Later never came.