Member-only story
The Distance Screens Create
My son calls out to his father, eager, expectant, small hands reaching.
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His father is home after a long, exhausting month of work—finally resting, finally breathing, finally slowing down in the way he needs.
And yet, our little boy does not understand exhaustion. He only understands longing.
I watch them—one seeking, one retreating, both unaware of the quiet space growing between them.
And I wonder, How do we bridge it?
A few days ago, I came across a story that hit me harder than I expected.
A child, longing for attention, wished to be a smartphone—because phones seemed to get more love than children. They were held close, protected, answered immediately when they made a sound. But no matter how urgent a child’s voice, no matter how desperate his cries—he never seemed to receive the same unwavering attention.
I don’t ever want my son to feel that way.
I have come to realize that love sometimes moves in different rhythms. My husband's love, steady and unwavering, often looks like silent endurance—the kind that works tirelessly, the kind that carries burdens unseen. My love, fluid and ever-reaching, is…
