Today is Father’s Day.
My husband is spending it exactly where he’s spent most holidays, birthdays, weekends, and milestones over the last several years.
At the hospital.
An hour away.
The most we’ve communicated today is through text.
“Happy Father’s Day.”
“I love you.”
“I wish I was home with you guys on the balcony.”
That was it.
And honestly, that wasn’t the part that hurt.
It’s our normal.
After years of medical school, residency, overnight calls, weekends apart, and holidays spent working around a hospital schedule, you learn to adapt.
You stop expecting normal.
You stop expecting weekends.
You stop expecting family dinners.
You stop expecting your spouse to be sitting next to you on every holiday.
I miss him, of course.
I always miss him.
But that wasn’t what was bothering me today.
Today was beautiful.
The weather was perfect.
My daughter and I spent time outside on our balcony. She played. I watched her. The dogs stretched out in the sun.
It should have felt peaceful.
Instead, I felt lonely.
Not because my husband wasn’t here.
But because everyone else seemed to be somewhere else too.
Over the last year, I’ve become increasingly aware of something I’ve tried very hard to ignore.
My daughter often feels like an afterthought.
Not intentionally.
Not maliciously.
Just quietly.
Subtly.
The kind of thing that happens so gradually you start questioning yourself before you question anyone else.
Today it was impossible not to notice.
I opened our family group chat and saw photos.
Video calls.
Updates.
Conversations.
Grandchildren being celebrated.
Grandchildren being FaceTimed.
Grandchildren being visited.
And I sat there wondering why nobody ever seems to think to call ours.
No one called.
No one FaceTimed.
No one asked if my daughter wanted to say hello.
No one checked in.
No one asked how she was doing.
No one asked how I was doing.
And before anyone says it, yes, phones work both ways.
I know.
Trust me, I know.
But relationships work both ways too.
Sometimes after you’ve spent years being the one who reaches out first, you stop reaching just to see what happens.
Not because you don’t care.
But because you want to know whether anyone notices.
What hurts isn’t really me.
It’s her.
Because she is impossible not to love.
She’s funny.
She’s curious.
She’s affectionate.
She’s stubborn.
She’s developing this huge little personality that somehow gets bigger every single day.
And I constantly find myself wondering how people aren’t obsessed with her.
I know that sounds like every mother who has ever existed.
But it’s true.
She’s incredible.
And sometimes I feel like people are missing it.
Missing her.
Missing these moments they’ll never get back.
There are moments that make it harder not to notice.
Sometimes I’ll spend months saving for something I want for my daughter.
A book.
A toy.
A learning tool.
Something I’ve researched endlessly because every dollar matters in our house.
Or one of you, this incredible community, will purchase something for her that I’ve carefully chosen because I know she’ll genuinely use it and grow with it.
And then a few weeks later, I’ll see my mother-in-law purchase that exact same thing for her youngest granddaughter.
The same toy.
The same concept.
The same item I spent months researching and saving for.
Normally that wouldn’t bother me.
Children can absolutely have the same things.
In fact, I think cousins having similar toys is wonderful.
But what makes it sting is that those purchases rarely seem to happen for my daughter.
It’s not about the toy.
It’s never really about the toy.
It’s about feeling seen.
It’s about feeling like someone noticed what mattered to your child.
It’s about watching effort and thoughtfulness flow naturally in one direction while quietly wondering why it doesn’t seem to flow in yours.
And this is where I start questioning myself.
Because if distance were truly the reason, then how do I explain California?
One of her granddaughters lives across the country.
Thousands of miles away.
Farther away than we are.
And yet there are weekly FaceTime calls.
Packages in the mail.
Little surprises.
Books.
Toys.
Thoughtfulness.
An active effort to remain part of her life despite the distance.
And honestly, that’s wonderful.
I would never want a child to receive less love.
But it does make me pause.
Because if distance can be overcome for one grandchild, why can’t it be overcome for another?
That’s the part I struggle with.
Not because I’m demanding equal gifts.
Not because I’m demanding equal attention.
But because I find myself wondering whether my daughter ever crosses their minds in the same way.
I know they love her.
I genuinely believe that.
But love and effort aren’t always the same thing.
When my daughter was born, there were a few gifts.
A couple thoughtful gestures.
The excitement that naturally comes with a new baby.
And then life seemed to move on.
Meanwhile, I watch consistent effort being poured into relationships with other grandchildren.
Phone calls.
Updates.
Packages.
Traditions.
And I find myself wondering what my daughter is missing.
Or maybe more accurately, what they’re missing.
Because they don’t get to see the little girl who dances when music comes on.
The little girl who hugs her stuffed animals.
The little girl who recently learned to walk and now looks impossibly proud of herself every time she takes a few steps.
They don’t get to witness the person she’s becoming.
And maybe that’s what hurts most.
Not that she is forgotten.
But that she is unknowable to people who could know her if they wanted to.
And before anyone jumps to conclusions, I don’t think this comes from malice.
I don’t think anyone is sitting around intentionally excluding my daughter.
I think proximity matters.
I think convenience matters.
I think people naturally invest in what they see every day.
And that’s exactly the problem.
When your child lives hours away and everyone else’s child lives nearby, distance starts creating its own hierarchy.
Not because people mean for it to.
But because familiarity is powerful.
The children people see every week become part of their routine.
The child they only see every few months becomes someone they love, but don’t really know.
And as a mother, that’s a painful thing to watch unfold in real time.
My husband and I have talked about this more than once.
Every time I bring it up, he gets nervous.
Not because he thinks I’m wrong.
But because he’s worried about what happens when people start keeping score.
He’s seen it happen in families before.
One person remembers who visited.
Another remembers who called.
Someone remembers who bought a birthday gift.
Someone else remembers who didn’t.
Eventually nobody is talking about the actual relationship anymore.
They’re just keeping a ledger.
A running tally of disappointments.
And eventually the resentment becomes bigger than the relationship itself.
He worries I’m walking down that path.
Honestly, he’s probably not entirely wrong.
I understand what he’s trying to protect me from.
I understand that holding onto every slight, every forgotten phone call, every missed visit can become toxic.
The problem is that I don’t feel like I’m keeping score.
I feel like I’m noticing patterns.
Maybe there’s a difference.
Maybe there isn’t.
I genuinely don’t know.
What I do know is that when you’re raising a child largely by yourself, you notice who shows up.
You notice who checks in.
You notice who asks how you’re doing.
Not because you’re trying to create a spreadsheet of everyone’s contributions.
But because you’re tired.
Because you’re stretched thin.
Because there are days when you would give anything for someone to simply ask, “How can I help?”
As I sat on the balcony today watching my daughter play, I realized something.
She doesn’t know any of this.
She doesn’t know who called.
She doesn’t know who didn’t.
She doesn’t know who visited.
She doesn’t know who forgot.
She doesn’t know which relationships feel effortless and which ones feel one-sided.
She just knows she’s loved.
And maybe that’s enough for today.
Because while there are people I wish showed up more, she always does.
While there are relationships I wish felt different, this one feels exactly right.
Before I end this, I want to say something.
Thank you.
Truly.
Thank you to this community.
There have been so many moments over the last year where complete strangers have shown up for my daughter in ways that people in our real lives simply haven’t.
That isn’t something I say lightly.
It’s actually something I struggle to admit.
But it’s true.
There have been days when I’ve opened a notification and seen that someone purchased diapers for my daughter and felt immediate relief.
Not excitement.
Relief.
The kind of relief that comes from knowing that’s one less thing to worry about.
One less expense.
One less item on a list that never seems to end.
And while those purchases may seem small to someone else, they have meant the world to us.
My husband and I talk about it all the time.
We are constantly amazed by the kindness of people who owe us absolutely nothing.
People who have never met us.
People who simply decided to help.
As lonely as today felt at times, moments like that remind me that we’re actually not as alone as I sometimes think we are.
So thank you.
Thank you for showing up.
Thank you for caring about our daughter.
Thank you for caring about our family.
Thank you for stepping up in ways that have sometimes felt bigger than our own family has been able to.
And thank you for reminding us that sometimes the people who become your village aren’t always the people you expected them to be.
Today the silence was loud.
But so was the kindness I’ve experienced from this community.
And if I’m being honest, that’s what I’ll choose to remember.
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UPDATED BIO:
Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.
In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.
Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.
If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.
🍼 Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — every burp cloth, diaper and/or bottle goes a long way.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Juan Encalada On Unsplash
