Being a full-time working mom to two young boys is a constant juggling act. My husband, Brad, works hard in construction, but when he comes home, he checks out, leaving me to handle homework, dinner, and bedtime while he plays video games. I’ve tried to explain that parenting is a partnership, but he always says I’m “just better at that stuff.” This Father’s Day, I hoped would be different. The boys were so excited, planning for weeks. They made handprint cards, and I planned a special breakfast and bought tickets to a classic car show Brad had always wanted to see.
The day started with the boys bouncing on the bed to deliver their cards and a tray of his favorite foods. Brad barely looked up from his phone, grumbled about being woken up, and then announced he was “running out for 30 minutes.” Those 30 minutes turned into five hours. He ignored my texts and calls while the boys and I waited, missing the car show entirely. Their little faces, full of disappointment, broke my heart. He finally stumbled home at 7:30 PM—not alone, but with a rowdy group of friends, expecting me to cook them dinner while the boys stood by in their pajamas, confused and hurt.
Something in me snapped. I calmly informed his friends that if they wanted to celebrate fatherhood, they were going to pitch in. I put one on dish duty for the breakfast the boys had made, another on bedtime story duty, and another on bathroom cleaning duty. I told Brad he was cooking dinner. They were too stunned to refuse. As they awkwardly worked, I played a slideshow of photos from our day, highlighting all the moments Brad had missed. The room fell silent. His friends left sheeply, and Brad was left with the undeniable evidence of his failure. The next morning, he gave a real apology. He’s now reading bedtime stories every night. Sometimes, it takes a drastic moment to show a father what he’s truly missing.
