BUT I DO

My daughters don’t remember the meetings I didn’t miss.

They don’t remember how late I stayed at the office,
or how many times I said,
“Not now. Daddy’s busy.”

But I do.

I remember the bedtime stories I didn’t read.
The walks I cut short.
The laughter I missed while trying to impress people
who would never call me “Dad.”

They don’t remember.

But I do.

And I carry that—
like a suitcase I’ll never fully unpack.

Maybe that’s part of fatherhood.

Realizing you can’t go back
and read the stories you missed.

You can’t take the walks you hurried through
or hear the laughter that already happened.

But you can be there
for tonight’s story.

Tonight’s walk.

Tonight’s laughter.

I finally am.