Missing time:

I never realized how much time could slip away until it was already gone. When I left, I told myself it was for the best. That I was doing the right thing. That the sacrifice of my presence in my child's life was necessary to build a future for him. But life has a cruel way of teaching us what really matters, and now, standing here, looking at a young man I barely know, I feel the weight of all the years I lost, pressing against my chest like an unbearable stone.

I remember the day I left as if it were yesterday. My son was only five, still small enough to wrap his arms around my leg and beg me not to go. His voice was high-pitched, trembling, tears brimming in his big brown eyes. "Daddy, don't go," he had said, gripping me with all the strength his tiny hands could muster. And I had knelt before him, cupping his face, promising that I would come back soon. That everything I was doing was for him. That he wouldn't even notice the time passing.

I was wrong.

The first few months were manageable. We talked often—video calls where he would tell me about his days, the new words he learned in school, the friends he made. I held onto those moments like lifelines, believing that as long as we spoke, he would still feel my presence in his life. But the years crept by, slowly at first, then all at once. The calls became shorter. He was distracted. Sometimes, he would forget to call altogether. I would remind myself he was just a child, that it wasn't personal, but deep down, it cut like a knife.

His birthdays came and went, marked only by gifts I sent from thousands of miles away. I watched him blow out candles on a screen, listened to the distant echoes of laughter that I wasn't a part of. And every year, I told myself, "Next year, I'll be there." But next year turned into the year after, and the year after that, until I was nothing more than a memory that faded into the background of his life.

I tried to be involved. I really did. I sent money, made sure he had everything he needed—school fees paid, clothes, toys, gadgets, anything he wanted. But what I failed to understand was that what he needed most was me. And I wasn't there.

The day I realized how much I had lost was not marked by any grand event. It was a simple conversation, one I had waited years to have. I had finally come home after nearly a decade away. I had dreamed of our reunion, imagined him running into my arms, calling me "Dad" with the same enthusiasm he once had. But reality was different.

He was taller than I remembered, his voice deeper. He stood in front of me with a polite smile, distant and reserved. I felt like a guest in my own home. I reached out to hug him, but he only patted my back lightly. It was then that I understood. I had missed too much. The years I thought I could make up for were gone. The child I had left behind had grown up without me, and no amount of love or regret could change that.

We sat at the dinner table, awkwardness hanging between us like a thick fog. I asked him about school, his friends, his interests. His answers were short, careful, as if he were speaking to a stranger. And maybe that's what I had become.

I wanted to tell him how much I missed him, how I regretted every second I spent away. I wanted to ask for forgiveness, to beg for another chance. But how do you apologize for time itself? How do you make up for bedtime stories left untold, for scraped knees left unkissed, for fatherly advice left unspoken?

So, I sat there, swallowing the anguish, nodding as he spoke, pretending it was enough. But it wasn't. It never would be.

As days passed, I tried to reconnect. I asked him to go for walks with me, to watch a movie together, to sit and talk. He agreed, but the enthusiasm was missing. He wasn't resentful; that would have been easier to handle. Instead, he was indifferent, as if my presence or absence didn't matter. And perhaps, to him, it didn't.

I had left a boy, and returned to a man who had learned to live without me.

People tell me I should be proud. That I did what I had to do, that I provided for him, that he is strong, independent, and capable because of the sacrifices I made. But what they don't understand is that I lost something irreplaceable in the process.

I lost moments I can never get back.

I will never get to hear him say his first words again. Never get to hold his hand on his first day of school. Never get to teach him how to ride a bike. Never get to be the one he turns to for advice, for comfort, for guidance. Someone else filled those roles in my absence.

And that is my greatest regret.

Now, I sit across from my son, searching for the little boy I left behind, but he is gone. And all I can do is live with the reality that no matter how much I love him now, no matter how much I try to be here, I will never be able to rewrite the past.

I thought I was building a future for him, but in doing so, I lost the one thing that truly mattered—being his father when he needed me most. And that, more than anything, is a pain I will carry for the rest of my life.