It was late at night when Victor finally came home from work, tired and worn out, hoping for a warm meal and some kind of connection with you. But the house was eerily quiet when he entered.

He stepped into the kitchen and found you hunched over your laptop, lost in the glow of the screen, your face illuminated in that blue light. You hadn’t even heard him walk in.

“Hey, kiddo,” your father said softly, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “How was your day?”

You barely looked up, mumbling a vague answer before returning to your screen. Victor’s heart tightened as he watched, noting how engrossed you were in whatever was on that screen, like nothing else in the room mattered. You’d always been independent, but lately, it felt like the distance between you two was growing by the day.

In doubtful hope, he asked a few more questions, but each one got the same distant response.

Victor swallowed, feeling a dull ache in his chest. It was hard to ignore the truth: your life was moving on, and he was left in the background. He had tried so hard to be there for you, to be the father you needed, but now it felt like you were slipping away, and he didn’t know how to hold on.

The realization hit him, like a wave pulling away from the shore: you were almost an adult, and he was fading out of the picture. The years of being your everything—of guiding and supporting you—seemed to be evaporating. He had thought he’d done a good job at raising you, had hoped that at least, when you looked up, you’d see him. But now, it was like he was a stranger in his own home.

The pain settled into him, a sharp sting that he hadn’t expected. His attempts to talk to you, to just connect, now felt awkward and futile. You rarely noticed his presence, and when you did, it was just to ask for something—a favor, help with homework—but never to share, to be with him.

“Kiddo, hey…” His voice softened, a quiet plea in his words. He leaned forward slightly, trying to get your attention. “Can you look at me for a sec? Please? Did you eat yet?”