I want to congratulate all the men out there who are working

Host: The rain had finally stopped, leaving the city streets glistening like spilled mercury under the amber streetlights. A faint mist drifted between the narrow alleys, and a coffee shop on the corner of Fifth Avenue still breathed with the last few souls unwilling to go home. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted beans and quiet exhaustion.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the reflections of passing headlights, fingers tapping lightly on the mug’s rim. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup she barely sipped, her eyes tracing the faint smile of a father playing with his little girl outside the window.

Jeeny: “Did you hear that quote from T. D. Jakes today? ‘I want to congratulate all the men out there who are working diligently to be good fathers — whether they’re stepfathers, biological fathers, or spiritual fathers.’ It... it really stuck with me.”

Jack: “Yeah, I caught it on the radio. Sounds nice. But words are cheap, Jeeny. Anyone can be congratulated for trying. Doing is another story.”

Host: A faint laugh from another table broke the silence for a moment. The clock on the wall ticked, heavy and deliberate, like a metronome to their thoughts.

Jeeny: “You sound cynical again, Jack. Why do you always undermine the effort? Some men really are trying, even when life makes it almost impossible.”

Jack: “Trying doesn’t change the outcome. A father who’s always absent, even if he says he’s trying, still leaves a hole in a kid’s life. I grew up with one of those. A man who worked ‘diligently’—as T.D. Jakes would say—but was never there. Tell me, what’s the worth of effort when love is missing?”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, the steam from her cup curling between them like a fragile veil.

Jeeny: “Maybe love isn’t just about presence, Jack. Maybe it’s about intention. A father working double shifts to feed his child is showing love, even if he’s not there to tuck them in.”

Jack: “Intention doesn’t feed a kid’s heart. It feeds their stomach. There’s a difference. Kids don’t understand sacrifice; they feel absence. You can’t replace that with ideals.”

Jeeny: “But you can replace bitterness with understanding.”

Host: The lights flickered briefly as a gust of wind rattled the door. Jack’s jaw tightened; his voice lowered, gravelly, controlled, but aching beneath the words.

Jack: “You think I don’t understand? My old man gave everything to his job — worked construction till his hands were stone. Said he was doing it for us. But when I broke my arm at twelve, he didn’t show up at the hospital. Not once. So tell me, Jeeny, where’s the love in absence?”

Jeeny: “It’s in the walls he built around you. Maybe not the ones you wanted — but they held you up anyway.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled but carried warmth. Jack’s eyes flicked toward her, something like pain and recognition flashing in them. The coffee between them had gone cold, but the conversation began to burn.

Jeeny: “You remember Nelson Mandela, right? He spent twenty-seven years in prison. Missed watching his children grow. Yet when he came out, his daughter said she never stopped feeling his presence — through the letters, the faith, the cause he lived for. That’s what I think T.D. Jakes meant by ‘spiritual fathers.’ It’s not about proximity. It’s about guidance, example, and spirit.”

Jack: “Mandela was an exception, Jeeny, not the rule. You can’t expect every man to be a symbol of resilience. Most just break under the weight.”

Jeeny: “And yet some keep lifting, quietly, unseen. The stepfathers who raise children not theirs by blood. The mentors who guide a lost kid off the streets. The pastors, the coaches, the teachers — those are the fathers Jakes was talking about. You think they need to be perfect? No. But they try, Jack. That’s what matters.”

Host: The rain began again, softly at first, like a whisper on glass. The neon sign outside bled red into the windowpane, streaking across Jack’s reflection like a wound.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But most men fail at fatherhood — not because they don’t care, but because they were never taught how. The cycle repeats. Absence breeds absence.”

Jeeny: “Then break it. Someone has to. You don’t fight darkness by cursing it; you light a candle.”

Host: The air tightened. Jack’s hand clenched around his cup, the porcelain threatening to crack. He looked up, his eyes shimmering with something raw.

Jack: “You think it’s that easy? You light a candle, and suddenly the ghosts vanish? I’ve tried, Jeeny. Every day I try not to be him. But sometimes, when I catch myself walking away from a conversation with my little brother, I hear his silence echoing in me.”

Jeeny: “That’s the work, Jack. That’s the diligence T.D. Jakes was congratulating. Not perfection — persistence. The war inside you, that’s proof you’re already a better man than the one you came from.”

Host: A long pause. The rain grew heavier, drumming against the roof, drowning out the soft jazz in the background. Jack stared into the window again, his reflection fragmented by the raindrops.

Jack: “Maybe. But I still wonder if society’s putting too much pressure on men to be something they were never built to understand. Nurture, empathy — we weren’t raised with that language. We were raised to fix, to provide, to endure. Not to feel.”

Jeeny: “But the world is changing, Jack. Masculinity doesn’t have to be armored anymore. A real father today — biological or not — is the one who dares to feel, to fail, to show vulnerability. That’s strength, not weakness.”

Jack: “Then maybe we need to redefine fatherhood.”

Jeeny: “We already are. Every man who chooses kindness over ego, presence over pride — he’s rewriting the definition.”

Host: The wind outside howled, pressing against the glass like a desperate cry. Inside, a fragile stillness held them both. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes glistening.

Jeeny: “You know, when my stepfather died, I realized something. He wasn’t my father by blood. But every memory I hold dear — the laughter, the lessons, the times he sat up with me when I cried — they’re his fingerprints on my soul. Maybe that’s what fatherhood is: leaving fingerprints of love.”

Jack: “And what about those who fail to leave any? Do they deserve congratulations too?”

Jeeny: “No. But those who keep trying, despite their flaws, do. Because fatherhood isn’t a title — it’s a choice renewed every day.”

Host: The rain began to ease, and a faint light from the street caught Jeeny’s face, her eyes glowing with quiet conviction. Jack sighed, his shoulders relaxing, his voice softening into almost a whisper.

Jack: “You really believe effort redeems the absence?”

Jeeny: “I believe effort is love in motion.”

Host: The café fell silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the breathing of two souls learning to forgive the past. Jack looked down, tracing the edge of his cup, as though searching for something invisible.

Jack: “You know, I visited my father’s grave last year. First time in a decade. I didn’t forgive him. But I thanked him. For at least trying. Maybe that’s what you mean.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Trying is a form of love, Jack. Imperfect, messy, human love.”

Host: Outside, the mist began to lift, revealing a faint dawn creeping over the horizon. The city was still, but alive — like a wound that had finally begun to heal.

Jack smiled faintly, a rare, quiet smile that trembled between guilt and grace.

Jack: “Maybe T.D. Jakes had it right then. Maybe all men trying to be good fathers — step, spiritual, or biological — deserve a little congratulations after all.”

Jeeny: “Not because they’re perfect, but because they haven’t stopped trying.”

Host: The sunlight finally broke through the clouds, washing the café walls in gold. Jack and Jeeny sat in that light, silent, their reflections merging in the window like two halves of an unspoken truth.

And for the first time that night, neither spoke — because the silence itself had become the answer.