By Robert Clements
You Can’t Be a Part-Time Father..!
Nope, I didn’t write this on Father’s Day. I waited. Like a real father should. Not for the cards with more glitter than glue. Not for the WhatsApp deluge of music-backed poems playing — “My Dad, My Hero” — forwarded so many times, even the phone gets tired.
I waited till the confetti settled, till the virtual candles stopped flickering, till the sponsored ads gave up on me.
And that’s when I heard it. One quiet sentence. A line from a family message, barely whispered into the digital void: “Thank you, Dad, for being present.”
Present.
Not wrapped in gift paper. Not an iPhone. Not a set of socks. Not the kind that fits inside a box with a ribbon. I mean the other “present” — the one they used to call out in school. “Robert?”
“Present, ma’am!”
That one. The word that means you showed up. Not just in the car outside the gate. Not just in the family album. But in real life. Day after exhausting day. Tantrum after tantrum. Tooth after tooth under the pillow.
Being “present” doesn’t mean you attended their annual day over Zoom while secretly replying to emails. Or that you sent them a voice note from your quarterly review saying, “Do well in your elocution competition, beta!” Being present means you were there when their courage wobbled. When the math homework attacked. When the school bully struck. When they stood alone at the edge of the football field, looking for their cheer squad — and saw you, the lone clapper with a camera phone and a heart full of pride.
And also as was the case with my daughters, when their hearts were broken, by some smug fellow, whose face I wanted to punch.
But before you play your ace of spades — “But I’m the provider!” — let me slide in my joker. Yes, you bring home the bacon. But are you at the table when it’s served? Or are you “on a call”? If your child recognises the sound of your key turning in the lock more than your laugh, then brother, it’s time for a recalibration.
Let’s talk about you divorcees. (Yes, I said it.)
Some of you think two weekends a month and a few summer selfies in Goa is fatherhood. Let me break it gently — that’s tourism. Children don’t need tourists. They need residents.
Part-time fatherhood may work for tax filing or car rentals, but not for the human soul.
Not when a child’s sense of security is being constructed. Not when their blueprint for love, for respect, for family — is under construction. You can’t subcontract this one.
“But my child doesn’t want to talk to me!” I hear you cry. Let me tell you why. Because the last few times they tried, you had your nose in your phone, your eyes on the stock ticker, and your ears tuned to commentary from an IPL match. Children aren’t stupid. They know when they’re background noise. You see, being present doesn’t mean being perfect.
It means being human.
It means putting your ego on silent mode, and your empathy on loudspeaker.
It means you become:
The villain in their bedtime story (if required).
The horse during piggyback rides. The voice behind the school project (even when you glue your fingers to the chart).
The secret investor in their lemonade stand (and sole customer too).
And yes, the fool in their puppet show.
Sometimes it means staying silent when you want to fix everything. It means listening to a 12-minute explanation of why Shreya hates Anaya — without solving it, judging it, or interrupting it. It means realising that their problems may not have tax benefits or strategic value, but in their world, it’s DEFCON
And when they cry?
Don’t say, “Stop crying, be strong.”
Say instead, “I’m here.”
Because presence doesn’t always solve.
It simply soothes.
Now let me tell you a story.
Years ago, at a school open day, a small boy stood at the gate, looking down the road. All around, children were dragging their fathers to classrooms — “Come see my drawing!” “That’s my model of the solar system!” But this one child stood alone. The principal noticed him. “Waiting for someone, beta?”
The boy nodded. “My dad,” he said.
“He said he’d come?”
“Yes. He said he’ll try.”
And that word — try — floated like a helium balloon, losing hope with every second.
The father never came.
Now listen to the twist — that child became a father.
And every single time his child said, “Papa, will you come?”
He didn’t say, “I’ll try.”
He said, “I’ll be there.”
And he was.
Because broken promises in childhood become unbroken vows in adulthood — if we learn.
Here’s the miracle of presence: it’s contagious.
Your child learns to value what you model.
They carry forward what you lived.
And one day, when their own child shouts out “Daddy?”, they won’t just echo your voice — they’ll embody your presence.
That’s legacy.
Not the house you built.
Not the bank balance you left.
But the moments you lived.
The effort you gave.
The love you showed.
You don’t need to be wealthy to be present. You need to be willing.
You don’t need wisdom. You need attention.
Not expensive gifts. But expensive time.
So here’s a suggestion — and it doesn’t need a calendar alert.
The next time your child walks into the room, don’t scroll.
Don’t shush.
Don’t sigh.
Look up.
Look straight into their eyes.
And with your whole being — not just your voice — say:
“Present!”
Because that one word — that simple roll-call affirmation — is how generations get healed.
And one day, in the crowded classroom of life, when your child’s child says,
“Where’s Daddy?”,
you’ll be remembered as the man who answered —
“Present.”
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