August 21, 1972

I never knew my father for the first two years of my life. I was just a baby when he was taken away. But when I turned two, I finally got to meet him. I was sitting in the front seat of the car, waiting as my mom picked him up from County Jail. I didn't really understand what that meant back then, but I could tell something was off.

From that moment on, my dad's presence in my life was sporadic at best. He would stumble home late at night, smelling like something strange and acting all woozy. It was like sleep was the only reason he ever came home. I would see him stumble into his bed, not even bothering to say hello or ask about my day. It made me sad, but I was used to it by then.

One day, I had volleyball practice after school. Mom said that Dad would come to pick me up afterward. I was so excited to see him, to have him there watching me play. I waited and waited, but he never showed up. The other kids went home one by one, their parents cheering them on. But my dad was nowhere to be found.

I felt a mix of disappointment and abandonment. It hurt knowing that he had promised to be there for me, but once again, he had let me down. I didn't know what to do, so I decided to walk home on my own. The whole way, I kept hoping I would see him driving towards me, his familiar smile lighting up his face. But it never happened.

As I walked, my heart felt heavy. I was angry and sad, all at the same time. How could he promise to be there and then just forget about me? I couldn't understand it. And then, as I turned the corner, I saw him. He was lying on the ground near a dirty dumpster, his body still and lifeless. It was like he had drunk himself into a deep sleep.

"Dad, get up! What are you doing on the floor?" I said, my voice filled with worry and frustration.

He stirred, his words slurred as he tried to speak. "Uh, your dad's been a little KO'd lately, as you can call it. I wanted to pick you up, but I guess I couldn't."

I couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions. I was sad, but also mad at him for letting me down again. Deep down, though, I knew he needed help. Even if he couldn't admit it himself.

He leaned in closer, his breath smelling strange and strong. "Promise me, Michael. Promise me you won't tell your mother. It'll be our little secret. I did come to pick you up, alright?"

Reluctantly, I nodded. I helped him up, struggling with his weight as I guided him home. It was hard, but I didn't want my mom to know. I didn't want her to worry even more about Dad. I carried his secret, a secret that felt heavy on my small shoulders.

To be continued...

(Note: In this chapter, the story is told from Michael's perspective as a seven-year-old. The language and tone reflect his young age, with a focus on his emotions, disappointments, and the burden he carries to protect his mother from the truth. The story has been expanded to provide more details and allow readers to immerse themselves in Michael's world.)