gambling father
The flickering neon sign of the casino pulsed a hypnotic rhythm, a beacon drawing my father in, like a moth to a flame. His eyes, once bright with laughter, now held a dull, desperate gleam. The scent of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the nights he spent away, chasing a fleeting chance, a phantom fortune.Hed come home smelling of smoke and despair, his pockets lighter than his heart. The weight of his losses, both financial and emotional, pressed heavily on our family. The bills piled up, the laughter faded, and the warmth of our home grew cold under the shadow of his addiction.It wasnt just the money that was lost. His time, his presence, his attention, all were consumed by the seductive whispers of the roulette wheel, the seductive promise of a big win that never materialized. The family dinners, the shared stories, the quiet evenings spent together all were replaced by the whirring of slot machines, the clinking of chips, the desperate hope that this time, this time, hed finally break free.But the odds were stacked against him. Gambling, like a hungry beast, demanded its due, and he was its prey. He would promise to quit, to get help, but the siren song of the casino always lured him back. Each time, the cycle would repeat, leaving us in its wake, battered and bruised, our hearts filled with a mixture of anger and fear, and a desperate hope that somehow, someday, the light would shine through the darkness.