My father is a gentle man and has always repeated the same phrase to me, “We’ve got time darling,”. Though when I look at the crushed-up Coors light cans on the counter, his blood shot eyes and the cigarette burns on the couch, I can’t help but doubt the sorry attempt at reassurance. Growing up around empty promises and drunken phone calls is a childhood I hope no little girl should have to endure. I lay awake at night praying that he stays until my wedding day, praying that he will wake up in the morning and praying that he will soon be saved. Although I wish I could hate my father, there isn’t one ounce of anger towards him, only hope. Hope that he will see that small light I see in him, the light that is begging to shine.