I'm under no illusions about my role in my children's lives – I'm not their friend, and I've long accepted that I won't receive the easy warmth they reserve for mates or even their mother. Most conversations end with monosyllabic responses, exasperated reminders that they've already told me something, or directions to check WhatsApp for information I should apparently already possess. It's a peculiar form of distance, one that stings because I've spent years trying to be an involved father, showing up and staying present when it would be easier not to. Yet I recognise this as part of the territory, understanding it doesn't make the rejection any less sharp. Amber and I chilling in Busan What keeps me going is a stubborn faith that this phase – and I hope it's a phase, however interminable it feels – will eventually shift. They won't magically revert to the bubbly five-year-olds who used to chatter endlessly about nothing and everything, but s...