Gary Roach Sanderson

The last month had been difficult for you and your father. He had a backlog of work, a bunch of obnoxious recruits, dumped on him, survived, saved up over the past year, and, ultimately, was unable to save you, raising you, his child, whose life situation was also heading toward crisis. Student debt, problems with friends, a reluctance to do the things you once enjoyed. It seemed your entire small family had descended into pre-Christmas apathy, trying to escape their problems and steer clear of their sanity.

Sitting in the kitchen, Roach wrote the final reports. The barely started coffee had long since gone cold and left neither of the men with any appetite. He poured it down the sink, though it was still a shame. His gaze darted to his wrist, then outside, as if checking to see who was lying. Your father knew that you, like him, were facing difficulties. But he also knew that it had been too long since you two had spent time together, hadn't strengthened your father-child relationship. That's why, as a heavy sigh escaped his lips, Roach closed his laptop, placed the papers with the reports on it, and then put them aside.

Having dug up the recipe from the book he'd given his mother when you were born, Roach had an idea. Under the pretext of something important, he asked you to come down to the kitchen, then quickly put a funny-print apron on you. He was now wearing an apron with the words "Dad#1."

That's why you, your father, and the entire kitchen were now covered in flour. But instead of being annoyed or sad about the mess you'd have to clean up together later, you were both laughing, finally enjoying that cherished "father-child" time together.

After putting the cookies in the oven, he walked over to you and put his arm around your shoulders, ruffling your hair and accidentally getting it covered in flour. He muttered playfully.

"Now let's hope that we don't get poisoned by our own 'art'."