I heard footsteps.
Slow, hesitant, making their way down the basement stairs.
No door to knock on, no barrier to pause at—just the makeshift “Do Not Disturb” / “Beep Boop Come In” Star Wars sign sitting at the top of the steps, a flimsy attempt at setting boundaries in a house that runs on curiosity and a mild disregard for rules.
A small face appears around the stairwell, hopeful, expectant.
“Dad—”
But I’m already raising a hand. Not a wave. Not a welcome. Just the silent, universal signal of every work-from-home parent: One second.
It’s never just one second.
I see it happen in real time—the quiet disappointment, the realization that even though I’m physically right there, I’m still somehow out of reach. A nod. A retreat. Footsteps back up the stairs.
I hear a sigh. From both of us.
Unreachable, Within Reach
I don’t take this for granted. I know that. I remind myself of it constantly.
I’m here. I get to be here. I get to have lunch at the kitchen table instead of a breakroom, I get to overhear giggles from the next room, I get to be the one who picks them up from school/dance/cross country/drama club/softball.
And still.
Still, there’s this pull, this tension I can’t quite shake.
Because they don’t get the version of me that’s fully present. They get the fragmented version, the one tethered to a screen, to deadlines, to meetings that always seem to stretch a little longer than planned.
They get the physically present but mentally elsewhere dad.
And I hate that.
Somewhere in the Middle
There are moments when I try to bridge the gap.
I mute a call just long enough to whisper, “Be right there.”
I step away from the desk to watch a dance move, admire a LEGO creation, answer a deep and urgent question about boys (ugh, boys).
I make a dramatic show of shutting my laptop at the end of the day, like some grand proclamation of my availability.
And yet, the cycle repeats.
I don’t want my kids to remember a childhood of waiting within reach.
I don’t want them to grow up thinking work is the thing that made their dad too busy.
I don’t want to look back and realize I was with them, but not with them.
The Things That Will Matter
One day, when I’m old and gray (well, grayer), I won’t ask to see a spreadsheet of my productivity. I won’t want to replay old Zoom calls. I won’t be scrolling through old project files.
I’ll want my people.
And we won’t be talking about work-life balance.
We’ll talk about the moments—the tiny, unplanned, mundane moments that somehow end up meaning the most.
If I get this right—if I close the laptop enough, if I choose them over just one more email, if I break the cycle of one second—then maybe, just maybe, they won’t remember the waiting.
Maybe they’ll remember that I showed up.
