There he was. Home once again. 

Those same weary eyes. Those murmuring lips speaking of some boring thing that happened at work or the grown-up homework ahead of him. The same swaying, lumbering walk which always dragged him to the kitchen. And the same visible tenseness that came with being in the house he lived in. 

Tomato Sandwich was always unsure on how to feel about that zombie he called his father.

Tomato sat in the corner of the front room, having pulled out a scrapbook because of boredom and loneliness. Mom was currently at her book club, and the stallion that had just ambled in just ignored him and went straight to that paperwork he did every night. He did nothing else; just go into the kitchen, try to pretend his sons and wife didn’t exist (did he even remember Cheese?), and just write numbers and nonsensical words on those papers. No time for playtime, shoo the colts away, and look the other way when his wife lost her temper.

Tomato huffed as he opened the scrapbook. What was the point of having Dad around if they hardly talked? He had heard all the other foals at school clamor gleefully about their fathers. Even his friend, Bluejinx, had good things to say about his own father--who was dead.

He looked at the first page of the scrapbook, showing his parents in wedding garb. Why were they even smiling? Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he turned the page, featuring the two on their honeymoon, moving into their new home, and various activities they had done that Tomato couldn’t bring himself to care about. 

Skipping ahead a few pages, he nearly jumped at a picture of his mother when she was pregnant. Blinking and adjusting his glasses, he felt awkward looking at his mom with a swollen barrel, so he turned the page once again, finding photos of his older brother as a tiny foal. 

Cheese was awfully cute as a baby, but none of the photos drew his attention as much as the one where their father played with his baby son.

Tomato’s eyebrow furrowed, and he gingerly stroked the photo. His father was lying on his back, holding a giggling Cheese up in the air, and smiling at him. The stallion’s eyes were clearly shining with love, and there was no doubt that the pony looked like he was glowing in that moment.

Tomato’s mouth was shut, but his teeth were still clenched. After staring a good deal at the picture, he decided to jump ahead to when he was a baby to see if there was a similar picture. So, he rapidly turned the pages forward, spotting some photos of Dad bearing smiles, some looking genuinely happy but gradually working their way to being insincere. There were even more frowns popping up. 

He stopped when he spotted his own red-orange coat in some photos. There was him as a newborn being held by their mother. There were pictures of him being held by all four of his grandparents. And there were several pictures of Cheese playing with him and holding him and giving him his bottle. But so far, no sign of Dad holding him. Just a couple of him forcing a smile for the camera and him and Mom giving each other looks that were a little mean.

He turned the page. There were pictures of what he presumed were Grandma Panini’s funeral, which made Tomato sigh over never remembering her. He turned the page to find Grandpa Beans’ funeral as well. And as he kept on turning the pages, seeing himself and Cheese grow up, he saw pictures of his father less and less.

The pictures that he did find either have him looking away, or looking straight at the camera with that vacant stare or a dispassionate glare, which were looks that Tomato grew up seeing from him, and nothing more.

He shut the book when he reached Grandma Cucumber Melon and Grandpa Pizza Pockets’ funeral, and looked up at the kitchen door. Resting his head on the book, he wondered what’d it be like to play with Dad for once. 

He looked at the calender, noting that it was Father’s Day.