The Quiet Vigil

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 somewhere between now and then lies a version of them that might let me back in, even just a little. Until that day arrives, I've made peace with the idea that my presence matters more than words. Simply being available and steady, in silence if necessary, feels like the truest expression of commitment I can offer.

Perhaps the hardest lesson is knowing when to speak and when to hold back. Too many questions feel like nagging; too much enthusiasm reads as intrusion. So I'm learning to exist in the margins of their lives – at that Starbucks in Busan, in the car during weekend errands, available when needed even if they won't admit it yet. I've come to accept that their apparent nonchalance doesn't mean they don't love me as their father – it's simply the language they speak right now, one I'm still learning to interpret. It's an uncomfortable vigil, this quiet persistence, but walking away isn't an option. Sometimes love looks less like connection and more like simply refusing to disappear.