dad leaves for milk, never returns.
dad leaves for milk, never returns.
The milk was always Dad’s job. He’d leave the house in the twilight, his flannel shirt a blur against the dusky sky, the clatter of his worn sneakers on the porch steps the only sound breaking the silence. He’d return, a half hour later, with a gallon of milk, the plastic bag crinkling, a familiar, comforting sound. Tonight, though, the crinkling never came.
It started like any other night. The scent of roast chicken and mashed potatoes hung heavy in the air. Mum was bustling around the kitchen, her red hair a halo of firelight. I was at the table, trying to decipher the intricacies of my multiplication tables. Then, the familiar clatter on the porch steps.
“Dad’s gone for milk,” Mum announced, her voice laced with a touch of annoyance. She’d often complain about his nightly milk runs, “Why can’t he just buy two gallons at once?” she’d say, “It’s not like the store is miles away.” But Dad just chuckled and winked, “I like my walks, love. Keeps me young.”
The minutes ticked by, measured by the clatter of the grandfather clock in the hall. Mum started to hum, a nervous habit, and I felt the familiar knot of worry twist in my stomach. An hour passed, then two. The roast chicken grew cold, the potatoes hardened. The silence in the house became heavy, oppressive.
We waited. We hoped. We prayed.
The next morning, a knock on the door shattered the silence. It was Mr. Henderson, our neighbour, his face pale. He told us he’d found Dad’s empty milk carton on the sidewalk, miles from the store. He told us they had found a clue – a single, worn sneaker.
The search party was a blur of anxious faces and whispered prayers. The forest behind our house was a tangled labyrinth of shadows and silence, where every fallen branch and rustling leaf sent shivers down our spines. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. The milk carton sat on the porch, a stark reminder of the missing father, the empty chair at the dinner table a haunting symbol of loss.
One day, a group of hikers discovered something strange – a small, weathered, wooden box tucked beneath a fallen oak tree. Inside, they found Dad’s journal, filled with his scribbled thoughts and dreams. He had been writing about his walk, his desire for peace, his fear of the darkness.
It was his final confession. He had never intended to return.
He had just wanted the milk.
He had just wanted peace.
And in the silence of the forest, he had finally found it.
