October 9, 2026.

Despite our best efforts, Father keeps crawling into the oven. He has carelessly tossed out casseroles and pies and full roasts to make room for his large body, scattering Mother's food and breaking her crockery across the kitchen floor. It has come to the point where when the oven needs to be turned on, to cook food for the family, we each of us sit in shifts with a chair dragged to the face of the oven, to block Father with our bodies from opening the door, where he would grab onto blisteringly hot food and racks with his bare hands to remove and dash them to the ground, before crawling inside.

This of course does not stop him from crawling inside while the oven is not in use, and turning it on himself. Mother must go to work at the printers, after all, for Father's meagre income at the cannery cannot support us all. There are several hours a day where Mother and Father's schedules uncouple and he has free reign to put himself in the oven and self-immolate, unless he is watched like a hawk.

Mother has withdrawn me from school and tasked me with standing watch in the kitchen during these hours. It is a blow to my education, but I understand. If father were to cook himself to death, we would not have the money for any of the children to have an education, and I am the oldest and have the most ability to stop Father.

When he is stopped from getting into the oven, Father does not fight. He accepts the defeat peaceably, and he will meet his opponent's eye, often with a faint smile, and comply. He will walk away into another part of the house, and sleep, or look at the wall, or place his hand upon his chest to feel himself breathing. He does not respond to questions, and we have given up asking.