One day, about four months after the incident on Christmas, my father had asked me if I would live with him to help him out. Given that things had been quiet in the last few months, I thought it would be safe enough to help him until he got back on his feet.
When I talked to my mother about this she thought it was a good idea. She thought it would be good for my dad to have some company in hopes that he would overcome his depression and be able to move on with his life. A part of me believed this and had high hopes that he was only drinking more because he was lonely.
So, the lease on my apartment still had a few months to go and my girlfriend and I decided to move in slowly. We would bring over a truckload of our belongings almost every weekend and when I would tell my father in advance that I would come over to drop by some things, he seemed fine with it. The tricky part was actually getting our belongings in the house. Not because there was not enough room but because at the last minute my father would call me and tell me it was not a “good” day to bring stuff over.
He acted like I did not know he had a drinking problem and that if he was too drunk one day, he did not want me to see him. Therefore, I could not come over to bring my things. Finally, it was getting to be too much. As he was telling me that today “was not a good day”, I asked him if any day would be a good day.