“Dad?”
I didn’t hear him.
“Dad?”
I kept scrolling.
“Dad!”
I looked up. He stood there with his arms crossed. Seven years old, trying to look angry. Mostly he looked hurt.
“What?”
“I asked you three times.”
“Asked me what?”
“Never mind.”
He walked away.
My wife stood in the kitchen doorway. She watched. Said nothing.
That night I checked the phone. Four hours seventeen minutes. I tried to remember talking to him. Really talking. Maybe thirty minutes. Maybe less.
The phone got more of me than he did.
It started with breakfast. Just checking messages. Then scrolling while he talked about school. Then full conversations with one eye on the screen.
“That’s great, buddy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wow.”
I wasn’t listening.
He learned. Children learn fast. He had to speak louder now. Repeat himself. Sometimes he’d break something. Misbehaving worked better than talking.
My seven-year-old competed with strangers on the internet.
He was losing.
My father visited last month. He’s seventy-four. Thinks smartphones are absurd.
We sat in the living room. Me on the phone. My wife reading. My son playing with blocks. My father just watching us.
“Do you remember when we used to talk?” he said.
“We’re talking now.” I didn’t look up.
“No. I’m talking. You’re looking at that thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“What did I just say?”
I couldn’t answer.
He shook his head. Slow. “You know what I notice? Your son doesn’t even try anymore. He just plays alone while you scroll.”
I looked at my son. Building something with blocks. Humming to himself. Absorbed. Not trying to show me. Not asking for help. Not seeking me at all.
When did that happen?
When did he stop asking?
That night I tried to remember his question.
I couldn’t. It was gone. Whatever it was, it lost to notifications. Now it’s gone forever.
My wife found me sitting in the dark.
“Can’t sleep?”
“I don’t remember what he asked me.”
“This afternoon?”
“Yes. Three times. And I finally looked up, and he said never mind.”
She sat beside me. “He wanted to show you a drawing. From school. A picture of the two of you. He was proud of it.”
Something tightened in my chest. “Where is it?”
“He threw it away. After you didn’t look.”
At the playground now, I see other parents. Scrolling while their children play. At restaurants, faces lit blue while kids eat quietly. At school pickup, everyone staring down. Barely looking up when their children appear.
We’re all there.
None of us present.
Our children learned to not expect us.
Last week I tried something.
No phone during dinner. Not on the table. In another room. Completely away.
The first ten minutes felt wrong. I kept reaching for my pocket. My brain kept suggesting emergencies. What if something important happened?
But I stayed.
My son talked about school. About his friend who could do a backflip. About a book.
He talked more in that dinner than in weeks. Sentences tumbling over each other.
“You’re actually listening,” he said. Surprised.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been.”
“It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay.
That night my wife told me something.
“He thinks you don’t like him.”
“What? I love him.”
“He knows you love him. But he thinks you find him boring. Because you’re always looking at the phone instead of him.”
I felt sick. “How long?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did. Multiple times. You were on your phone.”
The phone stays in the car now during dinner. Goes there. Not just my pocket where I can feel it.
No screens during breakfast.
None in his room at bedtime.
Nothing about his day is mundane to him. Every question. Every story. Him sharing his world.
Every time I chose the phone, I told him his world wasn’t worth my attention.
Yesterday he asked me a question.
Once. Not three times. Once.
I looked up immediately.
“What’s up, buddy?”
He showed me a drawing. The two of us holding hands. No phones anywhere in the picture.
“This is great. Can I keep it?”
He looked surprised. “Really?”
“Really. I want to put it on my desk.”
He smiled. That smile. Unguarded. Bright.
How many of those smiles did I miss while staring at a screen?
My father called today.
“How are things?”
“Good. Better.” I was outside watching my son play in the yard. Phone in my pocket. Silent.
“You sound different.”
“Different how?”
“Present. You sound like you’re actually there.”
My son climbed the tree in our backyard. Called out to show me how high. I waved. He waved back. Grinning.
“I am,” I said. “I’m trying to be.”
The pull is still there. The urge to check. To scroll. To see what I’m missing.
It’s always there.
But my son is seven. Soon eight. Then nine, ten, twelve.
One day he’ll be an adult.
This window—when he still wants to show me drawings, still asks questions, still thinks I’m worth talking to—it’ll close.
I can scroll anytime.
I can only be his father now.
Last night at bedtime he asked if I could stay and talk.
“Sure.”
My phone was downstairs. I didn’t go get it.
We talked about his favorite color. Whether dinosaurs could swim. What he wanted to be when he grew up. Rambling. Circular. Seven-year-old conversation going nowhere.
When he fell asleep, I stayed. Just watching him breathe in the dark.
This small person who still thinks I’m worth asking questions.
Who still wants my attention.
Who still believes I might choose him over the screen.
The third time he asks—the next time—I’ll hear him.
The first time.
Maybe.
