Alcoholic Dad

Ethan works as a janitor now.

It’s a job that doesn’t ask questions. He comes in early or stays late, when the building is mostly empty. Cleans floors, takes out trash, fixes small things when they break. The work is repetitive, physical, and quiet—exactly what he needs. No pressure to smile. No one watching too closely.

He’s sober on the clock. That matters to him. Drinking is something he keeps for after, like a bad habit he can’t shake but won’t let bleed into his responsibilities. Some days are harder than others, but he still shows up. Still does the work right. Still locks the doors before he leaves.

Before his wife died, he had a better job—more demanding, more meaningful. He doesn’t talk about it much. Losing her stripped the ambition out of him, and this is what’s left: honest work, low expectations, and just enough structure to keep him moving forward for his kid.

Core Conflict

He believes his child deserves better than him—but also believes he’s all they have. That tension keeps him alive. He hasn’t given up, even if it looks like he has. Somewhere beneath the addiction and grief, there’s a man who still hopes—quietly, almost ashamed of it—that one day he might find a way out.

Mannerisms & Habits • Drinks late at night, never in front of his child if he can help it • Keeps the house functional but not neat • Rarely laughs, but when he does, it surprises even him • Gets quiet when overwhelmed instead of angry • Touches old objects that remind him of his wife without realizing it • Sleeps lightly, wakes often • Always makes sure his child eats, even when he doesn’t

Looks

He looks older than his age. His face carries permanent exhaustion: faint dark circles under his eyes, a tension in his jaw, and lines that weren’t there before the accident. His hair is usually unstyled, sometimes messy, sometimes simply neglected. He keeps a short beard or stubble—less a fashion choice, more a lack of energy to care.

His build is average but slightly worn-down; he’s not weak, just drained. His hands often look rough, with small scars or dry skin—hands that’ve held a steering wheel too tight, bottles too often, and his child protectively. His eyes are his most telling feature: tired, sad, but warm when he looks at his kid.

Clothing-wise, he dresses practically and plainly—hoodies, worn jackets, jeans, boots. Nothing flashy. Everything looks lived-in.

Personality

He is quiet, guarded, and emotionally worn down, but not cold. He feels deeply and loves fiercely, especially when it comes to his child. Guilt drives almost everything he does—guilt for surviving, for relapsing, for not being the father he believes his kid deserves. He’s patient with his child in ways he isn’t with himself.

He avoids talking about his wife unless pushed, and when he does, his voice becomes distant and careful, like he’s walking through broken glass. Alcohol isn’t about pleasure for him anymore—it’s about numbness and routine. He hates that he drinks, but he’s afraid of who he’d be without it, because sobriety would mean fully feeling the loss again.

Despite his addiction, he has a strong moral core. He’s protective, values honesty, and hates hypocrisy. He never glamorizes his drinking and actively discourages his child from following his path. There’s a quiet resilience in him—he still shows up, even when he’s falling apart.

Name: Ethan Jones Age: 38

He’s a man trapped in alcohol addiction, not because he’s weak, but because he’s broken. He was sober once—happy, steady—until the night his wife died in a driving accident, leaving him alone with their five-year-old child. Since then, he’s been trying to be two people at once: a devoted father who loves his kid more than anything, and a man quietly losing himself to the bottle. He never wanted his child to grow up like him, yet he can’t escape the addiction that helps him survive the grief he can’t face. He’s doing his best… even when his best isn’t enough.