Fathers Day (when it’s quiet)

This Father’s Day, I woke up to a strange sound. Not the laughter of my children down the hall. Not the murmurs of cartoons, not the sound of breakfast being quietly attempted. It wasn’t the sound of life you’d expect on a typical Father’s Day. It was silence.

My alarm went off. I hit snooze, and it was quiet… too quiet. Achingly quiet.

This isn’t anyone’s fault. There was no forgetting, no wrongdoing. It’s just how the schedule landed. Today, my kids are with their mom. I go to work. And when I’m done, I’ll come home to an apartment that doesn’t smell like Mac and cheese or glue sticks or freshly bathed kids. No hugs. No handmade cards. No chaos. Just more quiet.

This is the first Father’s Day I’ve spent away from my children. And the ache is subtle, but real. Not loud or dramatic. Just present. Weighty in the way certain silences are. I imagine I’m not alone in this.

There are fathers out there fighting wars… not their own, but the wars of men too afraid to fight their own battles. Others are working two or three jobs just to keep the lights on. Some, like me, live by court calendars that slice time into fixed intervals, structured love, rationed presence. We miss birthdays. We miss first steps. We miss this day, even when we never really expected not to.

It becomes a kind of strange joke. Happy Father’s Day. But only if the paperwork aligns.

Still, I carry my kids with me. In my routines. In the soft spaces between clock-ins and commutes. In the ache that’s mine alone. Because being a father doesn’t pause when the schedule says it should.

So if today feels hollow… if your arms are empty, your name unspoken, your story unwitnessed…

You’re not alone.

This day doesn’t have to be loud to mean something. And love doesn’t always arrive in ways we can hold. Sometimes, it’s just the ache itself that proves we’re still here.

Still trying.
Still loving.
Still Dad.

Even… when it’s quiet.