I skipped my son's baseball games to work late because I thought providing was the same as being present—he's 34 now and we barely talk

The other day, I found an old Little League trophy in a box while cleaning out my garage. Third place, 1996. My son's team. I held it for a long time, turning it over in my hands, and realized I couldn't remember a single game from that season. Not one. I remember driving him to practice sometimes, sure. I remember buying the uniform. But the actual games? They happened on Saturday mornings when I was at the office, trying to close one more deal, answer one more email, prove one more time that I was indispensable.

I told myself a story back then that made perfect sense: every hour of overtime was an investment in his future. Every missed game was offset by the college fund growing steadily in the background. I was being a good parent by being a good provider. The math seemed so simple.

The lies we tell ourselves about time

Have you ever noticed how we convince ourselves that certain trades are temporary? "Just this quarter," I'd say. "Just until this project is done." But quarters turned into years, and projects multiplied like rabbits. My son grew from a gap-toothed seven-year-old begging me to watch him pitch to a teenager who stopped asking if I'd be there. The silence that replaced his requests should have been deafening, but I was too busy to hear it.

Working late became my identity. I wore my exhaustion like a badge of honor, comparing hours with other parents as if we were keeping score in some twisted game where the prize was... what exactly? I can't even remember now what felt so urgent, what emails couldn't wait until Monday, what meetings absolutely had to happen at 7 PM on a Friday.

The truth is, I was hiding. Work was controllable, predictable. I knew how to excel there. But showing up to watch my kid strike out? Sitting in uncomfortable bleachers making small talk with other parents? That felt vulnerable in a way that preparing presentations never did. At work, I was competent, respected. At a Little League game, I would have just been another parent, and somehow that felt like not enough.

When providing becomes avoiding

After my divorce, I threw myself even deeper into work. Suddenly I was the sole provider, and that responsibility felt crushing. I remember telling my son he was "the man of the house now," not realizing I was stealing what was left of his childhood. He was twelve. He needed a mother, not a promotion to adult responsibilities he wasn't ready for.

The financial pressure was real, no doubt about it. There were months when I juggled bills like a circus performer, and yes, I missed his college graduation because I couldn't afford the plane ticket. That particular regret sits in my chest like a stone. But if I'm honest, truly honest, money became my excuse for everything. Can't make the school play? Working late to pay for braces. Can't help with homework? Taking on extra projects for his college fund.

What I couldn't see then was that I was confusing being needed with being present. My son needed my money, yes, but he needed me more. He needed me to ask about his day and actually listen to the answer. He needed me to know his friends' names, to understand why he quit playing baseball in high school, to notice when his first girlfriend broke his heart.

The mythology of quality time

I subscribed to the great myth of "quality time." I believed that one really good conversation could make up for a dozen missed opportunities. That a special birthday dinner could erase a year of eating takeout alone while I worked late. Quality time, I learned too late, doesn't exist without quantity. Relationships are built in the mundane moments, the car rides to practice, the boring Tuesday dinners, the homework struggles at the kitchen table.

Now when I watch my grandchildren, I'm learning to be the person I couldn't be for my own kids. I'm present in a way that feels foreign and wonderful. Last week, I spent an entire afternoon watching my granddaughter organize her rock collection. The old me would have been checking emails, mentally making lists, finding something "productive" to do. But I sat there, fully there, asking about each rock, learning their names (apparently rocks have names now), and watching her face light up with the joy of being seen and heard.

What reconciliation really looks like

My son is 34 now. We talk maybe once a month, polite conversations that skim the surface like stones across water. I've apologized, multiple times, for choosing work over his games, for missing so much. He says he understands, that he forgives me, but forgiveness and closeness aren't the same thing. You can't rebuild a relationship that was never fully built in the first place.

In a previous post, I wrote about the importance of accepting the consequences of our choices. This is mine: I have a son who doesn't really know me, and whom I don't really know. We're strangers who share DNA and a handful of memories, most of them involving me rushing out the door.

But here's what I've learned about regret: it's only useful if it teaches you something. I can't go back and sit in those bleachers, can't cheer for strikes or console him after losses. What I can do is show up now, consistently, without expectation. I call even when he doesn't answer. I send cards for no reason. I remember his wife's birthday. I'm learning about his life in small increments, like an archaeologist carefully brushing dust off an ancient artifact.

Final thoughts

If you're reading this while your kids are still young, while there are still games to attend and plays to watch, I hope you'll close your laptop and go. The work will be there tomorrow. The emails will wait. But your child will only be seven once, will only look for your face in the crowd for so many years before they stop looking.

And if you're like me, living with the weight of missed moments, know that it's never too late to start showing up. The relationship you build now won't be the one you could have had, but it can still be something real and meaningful. Sometimes love looks like accepting the distance you created and patiently, gently, working to close it, one phone call, one visit, one honest conversation at a time.