Today my wife was sick, so for the first time I picked up our four-year-old son Timmy from kindergarten.
I walked into the classroom and the teacher smiled. “Where’s Timmy’s dad today?”
Before I could answer, another father rushed in. The teacher pointed at him cheerfully and said, “Ah, there he is!”
Timmy stood frozen between us. He looked at the other man, then at me, eyes wide with sudden fear. A second later he sprinted across the room and crashed into my arms, holding on like I might disappear.
In the car he gripped my hand tighter than ever and barely spoke. When I asked what was wrong, he whispered, “I thought you forgot me, Daddy.”
Those six words punched the air out of my chest.
I’ve always been the “provider.” The guy who leaves before sunrise and comes home after bedtime. I told myself the long hours were for them—for the house, the savings, the future.
But Timmy doesn’t measure love in bank accounts. He measures it in who shows up at the little gate with the rainbow painted on it.
That afternoon we built the tallest block tower in history and drew monsters with fifteen eyes. He talked and talked—about the dragon story, the sandbox castle, the girl who shared her cookies—and I realized I’d been missing the best parts of his days.
That night he fell asleep smiling. “I’m happy you came today, Daddy.”
I kissed his forehead and made a promise—not to my boss, not to my inbox, but to the small boy who just needed to know his dad will always be the one walking through the door.
Some wake-up calls come wearing tiny sneakers and carrying a backpack almost as big as they are.
I heard mine loud and clear.
