They say babies change fast in the first year, one moment they’re wobbling, and the next they’re walking, laughing, saying words you didn’t even know they’d learned. I know that now, not because I witnessed it, but because I missed it.
It’s been weeks. No videos, pictures or updates unless I ask, and even then, the responses are cold and brief. I scroll through the last photo I have of him saved in my phone, zooming in like I can somehow get closer, like it will make up for the fact that I wasn’t there for his first steps… or the first time he said “dada.” If he even said it.
I ask myself constantly: how did it come to this? I’m not perfect.
Most days, I sit in silence. going through work and life, but mentally, I’m somewhere between grief and rage.
But I’ve always tried to do more. To be better.
Yet somehow, I’m treated like a stranger. Like my presence in my son’s life is optional.
Do you know what it feels like to miss someone so small? To wonder if he remembers you? To wake up every day hoping for a message that says, “He asked about you today,”… but all you get is silence?
It’s more than missing a child. it’s missing a piece of yourself. A part of me that only came alive when he was born. A version of myself that only existed because of him.
So yeah, I’m struggling. I walk past the baby aisle in stores and feel like I’ve been punched in the chest.
I see toys, little shoes, the things I used to buy, and I wonder who’s buying them for him now.
Maybe I’m not supposed to say this. Maybe I’m supposed to act like I’m fine.
Well, I’m not. I cry. I’m tired. The nights are the hardest because there’s nothing to distract me, just me and the weight of everything I’m missing.
I’m saying it anyway. Because someone out there needs to know they’re not alone in this.
And I keep asking myself…
Is it still called “being a father” when you’re not allowed to father?