Emptiness of time

The phone rang, breaking the silence of the desolate road . David picked it up with the usual weariness of someone who had spent more days overseas than he ever imagined he would.. He didn't know how the call would go as there had been a breakdown in communication for far too long. Still, a familiar flutter of anticipation gripped his heart as he pressed answer, waiting to hear the voice that would always be worth the wait.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end said. But it wasn't the voice he remembered.

David's breath caught in his throat. It was deep, confident—a young man's voice. He looked down at the console, glanced at the screen, convinced for a moment that he must have dialed the wrong number. But no, his son's name stared back at him, clear and unmistakable.

"Hey... Ben?" David's own voice faltered, stumbling over the name that he had spoken a thousand times but never to this stranger.

"Yeah, Dad, it's me."

A heavy silence settled between them, one that neither seemed to know how to fill. David's heart twisted, a dull ache settling in his chest. When had his boy's voice changed? When had that innocent, high-pitched chatter turned into this measured, steady tone? When had his little boy become... this?

He sank down on the edge of the hotel bed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the realization. It hit him with the force of a blow—the years had slipped by, quiet and unrelenting, stealing moments he could never reclaim. He had missed it. Missed everything. Missed the playful squeals, the bedtime stories, the scraped knees, and the bedtime whispers of "I love you, Dad."

His mind flashed to memories that felt both vivid and painfully distant. He remembered the day he'd taught Ben to ride his bike. How his little boy's laughter had filled the air as he wobbled down the sidewalk, his arms flailing for balance before David had caught him just in time. He remembered how Ben had looked up at him, eyes wide with trust and admiration. That tiny face, that tiny voice...

Now, that child was gone. And David hadn't even been there to say goodbye.

He thought about the nights he had to work late night running busy restaurants, convincing himself he was doing the right thing, providing for his family. He thought about the holidays he had to work, the work that he had to take that took him further and further from the home that should have been his anchor. There had always been a reason to stay away just a little longer—a meeting, a promotion, a chance to secure a better future for his family.

But whose future was it, really? Was it for Ben? The boy who had learned to swim and kick a ball without his dad? Who had faced the first day of high school alone? Who had grown up and out of that soft, sweet voice, transforming into someone David barely recognized?

He wondered how many birthdays he had missed. He tried to remember the last time he had read his son a bedtime story or tucked him in. The memories were there, but hazy, clouded by the years that had separated them. He couldn't pinpoint the last time his son had said "Goodnight, Daddy" in that small, sleepy voice. At some point, the calls had become less frequent. Ben had gotten busy, too—school, friends, sports. David had told himself it was just a phase. Kids grow up. They need space. They become independent.

But this wasn't just independence. It was distance. An expanse of time and absence that David had created. He had thought he was building a life for his son. But all he had really built were walls. Walls of missed moments, of unspoken words, of a love that had been given in money and gifts instead of presence and time.

David gripped the steering wheel tighter, struggling to find his voice. What did a father say to a stranger who was once his little boy?

"Hey, buddy... how... how was your day?"

There was a pause, a hesitance that shouldn't have been there. When Ben answered, his words were polite, cordial, distant—like he was talking to an acquaintance, not his father. "It was good. Just school and practice. Same as always."

Same as always. David's chest tightened. He didn't even know what "always" meant for his son. He didn't know his schedule, his friends, his favorite subjects, or the dreams that kept him awake at night. He didn't know what jokes made him laugh or what songs he listened to on repeat. He didn't know him at all.

How had he let this happen?

David's vision blurred, tears stinging his eyes as he fought to keep his composure. He was the father. He was supposed to be strong, dependable, the one who knew everything about his son. But he had let that slip away. He had given that role to someone else—to his wife, to teachers, to coaches, to friends. Strangers who had spent more time with his son than he ever had.

"Dad? You there?"

David cleared his throat, the words heavy on his tongue. "Yeah, I'm here. Just... just missing you, kid."

Another pause, longer this time. David could almost feel his son's discomfort through the line. When Ben spoke again, his voice was softer, uncertain. "Yeah... I miss you too."

But did he? Did he even remember what it was like to have his father around? Or were those words just a reflex, spoken out of obligation, the way one says "I love you" at the end of a phone call because it's what you're supposed to say?

David wanted to ask. He wanted to beg his son to tell him everything—about his life, his thoughts, his fears, his joys. He wanted to know what he was like as a person, beyond just a name on his phone and a photo on his desk. But the words wouldn't come. He was too afraid of the answers.

"I'll be seeing you soon," David managed, his voice cracking under the weight of the anticipation of the expected trip planned for Ben to come visit him. But even as he said it, he wondered if it was too late. If coming to visit could ever bridge the distance that years of absence had carved between them.

He heard his son sigh, a quiet exhale that felt far older than it should have. "Okay, Dad. I gotta go. Homework and stuff."

David swallowed the lump in his throat. "Yeah... sure. I love you, Ben."

"Love you too," Ben replied, but the words were too quick, too rehearsed, too distant.

The line went dead, the silence rushing back in, heavier than before. David stayed there on the edge of the bed, the phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the echo of the voice that wasn't his little boy's anymore. A voice he didn't recognize.

He wondered how much of his son he had already lost. And how much more he would lose before he finally found his way back home.