The ham wasn’t even cut yet. My son was halfway through concealing the last plastic egg behind the couch and my daughter had only started laying the table with tiny paper rabbit napkins.
Then my phone started ringing.
I didn’t even have to respond to it to find out.
Before I spoke, my wife immediately nodded and looked at me. She understands. She always does.
I kissed them all fast—one on the head, one on the cheek, one silent promise I’d return shortly. Before the guilt could catch up to me, I grabbed my bag, zipped up my equipment, and walked out the door.
On holidays, many don’t consider professions like mine. And that is somewhat the goal. We’re there so others don’t have to consider it. Thus, their power remains on. This keeps their streets secure. Thus, when they are seated around the table, their systems continue to operate.
It is not spectacular. Missing the laughing, the sweets, the pictures sent to me later as a consolation prize is not enjoyable.
But it is required. And someone has to carry out this.
I worked the night shift that evening. The calls poured in nonstop. Routine maintenance, power interruptions, broken cables. Though by no means a glamorous profession, it was one that maintained movement. It kept life, the things people take for granted—lights, heat, technology—running.
That night, however, there was a specific call that felt distinct from the rest. A nearby building, an ancient one, had lost power and I knew it wouldn’t be a simple solution. The holiday’s burden still on me, the recollection of my daughter’s expression as she presented me her rabbit napkins still in my thoughts, I collected my equipment and set out.
When I got there, the building was quieter than normal. The corridors were dark and the flickering lights threw lengthy shadows on the walls. I walked to the control room and discovered the issue: a burnt-out transformer. I couldn’t solve it fast. I didn’t know whether I’d return before the children were asleep; it would take time, perhaps even longer than I had.
Rolling up my sleeves and getting to work, I sighed. There was no time to squander on remorse or regrets. But then, just as I was ready to finish the task, I heard a familiar voice behind me.
Hey, buddy. Long night?
I looked around to find Nick, another team technician. Leaning against the door, he wore a weary but knowing grin. He understood the experience. Every one of us.
“You know it,” I responded, shaking my head. Holiday shift. But responsibility calls, correct?
Nick grinned and moved closer, pointing toward the transformer. You got it all covered?
Sure, nearly finished. It’s going to take some time, though.
“Good,” he remarked, his voice falling somewhat. All of us are depending on you.
At the time, I didn’t give it much thought. He was only being nice, offering me the normal assistance. But as I toiled, something began to bother me. I felt something was wrong, but I couldn’t say what.
Hours went by and finally the power returned. I stood there, sweating and tired but happy, as the hum of the building returned to normal.
Hoping to see at least a peek of my family before they went to bed, I packed up my equipment and called it a night, rushing home.
The house was black when I got home except for the porch light’s gentle glow. I looked at my phone. A text from my wife appeared: “The kids are asleep, but they wanted me to tell you they saved you some pie.”
I grinned. Though I had skipped the large dinner, I was aware something small was waiting for me. That sufficed.
I tiptoed inside, trying not to disturb anyone. Entering the kitchen, I saw something odd. On the counter sat a letter. It was meant for me.
Opening it, bewildered, I unable to identify the handwriting. The letter said:
I hope you like the pie, but I meant to write this note. Time to return home.
Initially, I assumed it was merely a prank. But the words—”time to come home”—struck me more than I had anticipated. What did that even signify?
I looked over at the table where my wife had been preparing the food earlier that night and it struck me. The nagging feeling I had at the building, the notion that something wasn’t quite right. It felt like a sudden awareness, a hint of something more profound.
Sitting at the table, I reread the note attempting to understand it.
I phoned my wife; she did not answer. I left a note for her to call me back as soon as she could.
Minutes turned into hours. Not a thing. My thoughts were racing and I was beginning to feel restless. I made the decision to walk upstairs and see how the children were doing. Perhaps I was overanalyzing matters.
I froze when I entered their chambers. The windows were open. Though the screens were missing, the drapes were flapping in the wind. Rushing to their beds, panic seized my heart. There were no sheets.
Heart racing, I dashed back down. This was not occurring.
Dialing my wife’s number, I took up my phone once more. This time she responded with a frigid, “I know what you’re thinking” instead of a greeting.
What do you mean by that? What is happening? The children are where?
“They’re okay,” she said quietly and distantly. Still, they are no longer with us. They are at the neighbor’s home. I assumed you had worked it out by now.
Trying to calm myself, I took a long breath. What do you mean by that? For what reason? Why didn’t you let me know?
I didn’t want to disturb your labor. You have always been so committed to your profession. Lately, though, you have been absent much. Excessively. And I wanted you present, with us.
The burden of her remarks lay on me as I dropped into a chair. For all these years, I believed I was correct, toiling long hours, skipping family dinners, and holidays. But I had forgotten what was important. The reality was that for me, always came first duty. But in doing that, I had ignored the one thing that truly required my focus: my family.
It was no longer only about skipping meals. It was about missing out on their lives, missing out on moments I could never recover.
“You were right,” I answered, trembling. Everything else has consumed my attention so much that I didn’t even see what I was losing.
I didn’t want to speak. But it’s as though you are physically present but not actually here. We’re here waiting for you, but you’re constantly hurrying off to assist someone else, to mend something else.
The other end of the line was silent. Her words hung heavy on me, as if they were gradually soaking in, each one a stinging reminder of all I had been ignoring.
Finally, I declared “I’m coming home,” deciding in my heart. I will shortly be there.
The call finished and, for the first time that day, I experienced a profound clarity. I had to stop running now. Telling myself they were more vital, I had spent too much time pursuing obligations and responsibilities. The reality, however, was that my family required me. They always did.
Driving to the neighbor’s house, the burden in my chest lessened. I wasn’t just returning to make up for lost holidays or dinners. I was returning to be there, to be the parent and husband they required me to be.
When I got there, my children were laughing and their cheeks brightened at the sight of me. Hugging them firmly, I could feel their love’s warmth penetrate my weary bones. My wife came along; though her looks were gentle, they held silent strength.
I apologized, my voice heavy with feeling, “Sorry I missed it all.”
“It’s alright,” she said, grabbing my hand. We have always known. But remember—this is your home.
Then everything changed. Duty was no longer only about labor. It was about being there for the individuals who required you most and understanding that occasionally the labor you perform for others cannot take the place of the love and presence you offer to those who love you back.
If you’re reading this and have been putting something, or someone, on hold—don’t wait. Time passes more quickly than we recognize. Family means everything.
Share it if you believe this message could benefit others. Let’s remind one another what really counts in life.
