The Walk to the Front Door

Every evening, there's a walk that lasts about ten seconds.

It's the walk from the garage to my front door.

Most days, by the time I pull into the garage, I'm mentally exhausted.

I've spent the last eight to twelve hours listening carefully, solving problems, making difficult decisions, and carrying other people's burdens. By the end of the day, I don't want another conversation. I don't want another decision to make. I don't want anyone to need anything from me.

Part of me wants to sit quietly in the garage for a few minutes.

Or sink into the couch.

Or grab a snack.

Or mindlessly scroll my phone.

Anything that lets my brain stop working.

And then I smile.

Instead of coming through the garage, I walk around to the front door.

I don't want to miss what happens next.

My oldest daughter hears the front door unlock.

She stops whatever she's doing, and before I even put my bag down, I hear one of my favorite sounds:

A symphony of running feet, my youngest butt scooting across the floor and grunting as she "sprints," and a familiar voice yelling, "My Dada's home!"

I hear it almost every day.

They don't know I've been gone since 5:00 a.m.

They don't know I'm mentally drained.

They don't know I'm trying to convince myself that five quiet minutes would be nice.

They just know their dad is home.

And they want to play.

My oldest wants me to admire her latest art project.

Sit on the floor and "play with peoples together."

Say hi to everyone, including our dog.

My youngest wants me to pick her up.

Help her walk around the house.

Give her hugs and kisses.

For a split second, there's a quiet argument inside my own head.

You deserve a break.

You've worked hard today.

Five minutes won't matter.

Maybe I tell them I need to change clothes first.

Maybe I need to use the bathroom.

Maybe I should unpack my bag first.

They're small excuses.

Sometimes they're legitimate.

Sometimes they're simply my exhaustion trying to negotiate for relief.

Then I remember something that changes everything.

My daughters won't remember that I worked all day.

They won't remember how mentally exhausted I was.

They won't remember the patients I saw, the meetings I attended, or the problems I solved.

They'll remember something much simpler.

Who walked through the front door.

Whether Dad lit up when he saw them.

Whether he smiled.

Whether he got down on the floor.

Whether he seemed happy to be with them.

Those ordinary moments become answers to questions children never ask out loud.

Am I worth your time?

Am I worth your attention?

Do you enjoy being with me?

That's a sobering realization.

Because one day there will be a last time we "play with peoples."

A last time she jumps into my arms.

A last time I carry one of my daughters to bed.

A last time she reaches for my hand because she needs help walking.

The heartbreaking part is that I won't know it's the last time until long after it's already happened.

So most afternoons, I lose the argument with myself.

Not because I'm not tired.

Not because I always feel like playing.

But because I know what those moments are quietly teaching my daughters.

One day they'll stop asking me to chase them.

One day they'll stop asking me to play.

One day they'll run toward someone else.

Until then, I hope they remember a father who was always glad to see them.