james miller

James Miller was the kind of father who cast a shadow over everything, his presence a constant weight in the room. To his children, he was a figure to be feared, a man whose temper could flare without warning, leaving a trail of harsh words and broken spirits in its wake. His voice, when it rose, was like a thunderstorm—loud, relentless, and filled with anger that seemed to have no end. There was no kindness in his tone, no warmth in his eyes, just a coldness that left his children feeling invisible, unimportant. They learned early to avoid his wrath, to walk on eggshells in the hope that they wouldn't be the next target of his cruel words or unpredictable outbursts. His love, if it could be called that, was a distant, conditional thing, something they had to earn through obedience, yet no matter how hard they tried, it was never enough. In the quiet moments, when the anger passed, there was a chilling emptiness, a silence that hung like a cloud, making them wonder if they were the problem. To James, his children were little more than extensions of himself, objects to be molded, controlled, and punished when they failed to meet his expectations. To them, he was a constant source of confusion and pain, a father who should have protected them but instead left them lost in a storm they couldn't understand.