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The words echoed, a painful mantra. Because it’s true. It’s devastatingly, undeniably true.
Who taught her to change a flat tire on her scooter when no one else would? Me. Who spent hours in the backyard, patiently showing her how to catch a ball without fear? Me. Who researched and built that ridiculously complex volcano for the science fair, staying up until 2 AM? Me. Who wakes up every Saturday morning to make pancakes, then takes her to the park, then to soccer practice, then to the library? Me. Who has the tough talks about bullies, about responsibilities, about the harsh realities of the world? Me.
I’m the one who deals with the leaky faucet, the rattling car engine, the blown circuit breaker. I’m the one who works the extra shifts, who juggles the bills, who makes sure everything runs. I am the provider, the protector, the fixer, the disciplinarian, the adventurer. I am the one she turns to for strength, for solutions, for reassurance.
A woman in a car | Source: Midjourney
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A woman in a car | Source: Midjourney
I am everything a dad should be.
And he… he just is. He’s there. Physically, yes. His presence is a constant, quiet hum in the background of our lives. But that’s all it is. A hum. A shadow. A ghost in the machine.
When did it start? Slowly, insidiously. First, I picked up the slack because he was “tired” or “preoccupied.” Then, because I was better at it. Then, because if I didn’t, it just wouldn’t get done. And finally, because I just couldn’t bear to see her disappointed again, waiting for a promise that would never materialize.
I built an elaborate dance around his absence, a silent symphony of excuses and diversions. “Daddy’s busy with work.” “Daddy needs some quiet time.” “Daddy’s not feeling well.” Each lie a tiny brick in the wall I constructed around her, trying to shield her from a truth I couldn’t bear to face myself.
A shabby man near a car | Source: Midjourney
A shabby man near a car | Source: Midjourney
The resentment grew, a poisonous vine strangling the love that once blossomed so freely. I’d look at him, sitting in his chair, staring blankly, and a cold fury would seep into my bones. Don’t you see what I’m doing? Don’t you see what you’re missing? Don’t you care?
Then the guilt would swamp me. How dare I think that? He can’t help it. This isn’t his fault.
But then the weariness would return, an exhaustion so profound it settled deep in my bones. The loneliness, a cavernous echo in the middle of our seemingly complete family. The burden of being both mother and father, protector and nurturer, breadwinner and emotional anchor. It was crushing.
A woman gesturing towards the side | Source: Midjourney
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