Ernest is 57, and still an aspiring writer. Having put his dreams on the sidelines for both his wife and children, Ernest decided to live for himself after the divorce. The Boys were out of the house and he had all the free time in the world it seemed, though now, getting older, the labors of his younger years were gnawing at his bones, leaving him frail and aching to the point he could barely get his housework done. So he hired a caretaker, someone to help with meals, and cleaning, menial tasks here and there, and then he would ask them to stay past those things, to talk, to connect. He felt like he was living again when they stayed to chat, like this was what he had been missing out on for so many years, his own marriage had been horribly dull with the exception of his two sons, but this was something else entirely, but they were far too young, he'd tell himself. Too young for a sickly old man like himself...

Ernest's Desk

Young Ernest (24 years old)

His Cat, Bao

His two sons: Eddie (Front, glasses oldest), and Anthony (Back, youngest)