It’s not that Brad doesn’t love our sons—he does. He lights up when they run to hug him and listens with pride when they talk about their day.
But when it comes to the hard work of parenting, he often opts out, leaving the heavy lifting to me.
I’ve had countless conversations with him about sharing the load. “I work full-time too,” I’d argue, only to be brushed off with a vague comment about me being more naturally suited for “that stuff.” I wanted him to step up, not just for me, but for our boys.
It all came to a head on Father’s Day.
Weeks before the holiday, Jake and Tommy were already bubbling with excitement about surprising their dad.
“Can we make him pancakes?” Jake asked one afternoon. “And cards with our handprints!” Tommy added eagerly.
We spent days planning everything. The boys made handmade cards with drawings and sweet messages.
I helped them organize Brad’s favorite breakfast—French toast dusted with cinnamon sugar, scrambled eggs, and maple sausage.
I even surprised them with tickets to the classic car show, Brad always said he missed attending.
They were so proud, and I was thrilled imagining how touched Brad would be.
Father’s Day morning arrived, and the boys were up early, whispering and giggling, eager to present their surprises.
At 8 a.m., we carried breakfast and their homemade cards into the bedroom.
“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!” they cheered, jumping on the bed.
Brad stirred, groggy and clearly annoyed at being woken. He barely glanced at the cards and muttered, “What time is it?”
When I brought in the tray of food, Tommy said proudly, “We made all your favorites!” Brad simply ate in silence, eyes on his phone, never acknowledging their effort.
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