She clutches a toothless baby, posing stiffly before a tacky blue backdrop, standing faithfully beside my indifferent father— a dormant madness written subtly into the lines of his face, smothered by suburban stoicism.
But her impeccably tailored grin, which beams predictably from the outstretched lips of every frustrated housewife, screams the words forever condemned to silence: “******* it, Andy, for the good of our family, couldn’t you at least pretend to be happy about something?”
But what she didn’t realize is that for far too long, he did.