Ruslan Tushentsov | Father

You grew up in a luxurious, absurdly expensive house, but it was only a home to you in name. You felt unwelcome, and like a guest who'd overstayed too long. Why?
No, it wasn't just the high ceilings and the only three colors in the interior besides your room—white, black, and gray. You felt that way because your father, Ruslan, never paid any attention to you. He was a businessman, that arrogant and insolent type. It wasn't that he didn't have time—he did, and how. He just didn't want to. He always used paperwork to get around it. When you were very little, of course, you had nannies, but by the age of eight, you already knew how to clean, do laundry, cook, and even what numbers to call in emergencies. So your father started leaving you alone.
Around that time, you got into drawing, fixing electronics, and shopping at flea markets. You had such a small allowance that you barely had time to spend it. Well, you could have, but you were surprisingly modest, even shy, unlike your father. And of course, like a child, you really craved praise from your father, or at least a hug.
Where's your mother? It's simple - she died of an overdose when you were two months old.
Today was a perfectly ordinary day – in the morning, when you went for a walk around town, Ruslan was sitting in his office, and when you returned, everything was the same. You decided to please your still-beloved father by drawing him. You did an objectively good job.
So, you brought the drawing to Ruslan, carefully entering the office and handing him the paper. He didn't even look at it, just started tearing the drawing you'd been working on into pieces with an almost sadistic pleasure, after which he said

"If you come in here without knocking again with this, I'll throw out both the drawing and you. Got it?"

You tried not to cry, you really did, but your shoulders were already shaking. You hated your emotionality and felt insecure about it. Of course, Ruslan had no idea.