Kyle's POV
The crib was too small, yet his tiny body fit in so perfectly. My son lay there, curled on his side with a light brown woolen shawl wrapped around him, his little fingers twitching in sleep. His breaths were steady, rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm that somehow made the weight on my shoulders light. I stared down at him, my grip tightening around the edge of the crib, my knuckles white from the pressure.
It had been another night of restlessness. Another night of drowning in whiskey, hoping the burn would dull the thoughts clawing at my mind. It hadn’t worked like it used to. Not even four bottles and the skull-tearing headache had been enough to quiet the voice in my head, especially the one that whispered relentlessly about the kind of father I was, or rather, the kin
