Where I Belong

Sundays had long been ordinary and routine, almost melancholic. A day of gimmicky rituals he had long tried to escape. Like church because he didn’t necessarily believe. Or the weekly family dinners, where conversations around the table made him doubt his worth and cement his place as an outsider. The runt. Or ransacking his grandmother’s bedroom, while she was still alive, for the bottles of scotch and gin she tried to hide. This Sunday was anything but ordinary or routine. Certainly not mel...