When she climbed into the car, she carried only a small bag. She didn’t look upset—just tired. The kind of tired that comes from carrying invisible weight. We drove in silence for a while, the hum of the road filling the space between us.
Then, softly, she said, “Thanks for always coming. I know I can rely on you.”
It was in that moment I understood something I had always known deep down: being a father isn’t about titles, biology, or perfection. It’s about showing up, day after day, in the ordinary moments that shape a child’s sense of security.
The Meaning of Fatherhood
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