That is the thankless position of the father in the family - the

Host: The rain was falling with the kind of persistence that made the city feel like an old confession. Each drop hissed against the empty streets, glowing in the reflections of flickering streetlights. Inside a small apartment on the fifth floor, a single lamp burned beside a window fogged by breath and weather.

Jack stood by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of whiskey he’d stopped tasting an hour ago. His face was a study in weariness — sharp angles softened by quiet defeat. The sound of the rain filled the pauses between his thoughts.

Jeeny sat at the edge of the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, her eyes following the trail of condensation running down the glass. She had come not to argue — not tonight — but to listen. Yet she knew, with Jack, even silence turned into debate.

Jeeny: “August Strindberg once said, ‘That is the thankless position of the father in the family — the provider for all, and the enemy of all.’”

Jack: without turning from the window “Yeah. The man knew what he was talking about. A father’s the scaffolding of everyone’s comfort — until they tear him down to build something prettier.”

Jeeny: softly “You think that’s fair?”

Jack: shrugs “Fairness doesn’t factor into duty, Jeeny. You provide because you have to. Not because they’ll thank you.”

Jeeny: after a pause “But Strindberg wasn’t glorifying it. He was mourning it. There’s tragedy in being both essential and resented.”

Jack: turns, eyes glinting with irony “Tragedy’s just the tax on responsibility.”

Host: The rain pressed harder now, streaking against the glass like memory turned liquid. A faint rumble of thunder rolled through the sky, low and distant — like the growl of some old truth stirring awake.

Jeeny: “You really believe that? That fathers are destined to be unappreciated?”

Jack: “Look at history. Fathers are built on sacrifice and silence. They’re the invisible machinery that keeps the world running. People love to talk about motherhood — as they should — but fatherhood? It’s the unspoken contract: you give, and in exchange, you become the villain of your own household.”

Jeeny: quietly “That’s a painful way to love.”

Jack: sits down opposite her “It’s not love. It’s structure. Someone has to carry the weight so everyone else can dream.”

Jeeny: “But does it have to be that way? Does strength mean being unloved?”

Jack: bitterly “Ask any man who’s spent his life working for a family that sees him as a paycheck. He’s not loved — he’s tolerated until he fails.”

Jeeny: shaking her head “No. That’s not love’s failure — that’s the failure of communication. The father you describe builds walls instead of bridges.”

Jack: “Maybe because walls are easier to repair than hearts.”

Host: The room was small but heavy with quiet. The lamplight carved soft edges into their shadows. Outside, the city blurred — lights bleeding into each other through the fogged glass. The air between them pulsed with something deeper than disagreement: the ache of generations speaking through their voices.

Jeeny: “You sound like your father.”

Jack: laughs dryly “You’d have liked him. Stoic. Distant. Thought emotion was an illness you had to sweat out.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: smiles without warmth “I inherited his silence. He gave me everything but language.”

Jeeny: “That’s the inheritance most fathers leave — duty without expression. You spend your life trying to prove you were worth the cost, even after they’re gone.”

Jack: leans forward, voice low “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe being a father means accepting that your children will never understand you until they become you. By then, it’s too late.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cycle, Jack. Not wisdom.”

Jack: snaps “It’s reality!”

Host: The lamp flame flickered, and the thunder cracked close now — a sharp punctuation that startled the silence. Jack’s voice had risen, but beneath the sharpness was something raw, trembling.

Jeeny didn’t flinch. She simply watched him, eyes full of patience and pain — the kind that comes from loving someone who can’t quite let go of his ghosts.

Jeeny: softly “Tell me, then. When did reality teach you that love and resentment were the same language?”

Jack: after a long silence “When I was twelve. My father missed my birthday because he was working double shifts. I didn’t see him for three days. I told myself I hated him. Years later, when I was old enough to understand why — I realized that was the only language he knew: provision.”

Jeeny: quietly “And that’s what you’ve carried since.”

Jack: nods slowly “He was right, you know. Someone always has to lose themselves so the rest can stay afloat.”

Jeeny: “That’s not right, Jack. That’s martyrdom, not fatherhood.”

Jack: smirks faintly “Maybe the two aren’t that different.”

Jeeny: firmly “They are. A martyr dies for people who need saving. A father lives for people who need guidance. There’s a difference.”

Host: The rain eased, turning into a soft drizzle. The sound was gentler now — less storm, more heartbeat. Jack stared into the glass, watching his own reflection merge with the city lights beyond.

Jack: “You ever think fathers are just misunderstood soldiers? Fighting wars that no one asked them to fight — but the moment they stop, the world collapses?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “And you ever think the war isn’t real? That they invent it because they don’t know how else to prove their worth?”

Jack: meets her eyes “Then what’s a man supposed to do, Jeeny? Just... stop fighting? Let go of the idea that providing equals loving?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because love doesn’t need a transaction. You don’t earn it; you live it. A father isn’t a provider of things — he’s a mirror of security. His presence should feed, not his sacrifice.”

Jack: softly, bitterly “Try explaining that to a man who’s been told his whole life that his value ends when his wallet does.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we start telling them something different.”

Host: The rain stopped. The window glistened with droplets catching the last trace of city light. Somewhere far below, a taxi horn broke the silence, then faded away.

Jack rubbed his hands together — slow, restless — as if trying to warm something long frozen.

Jack: quietly “You think fathers can be redeemed?”

Jeeny: “They don’t need redemption. They need permission — to be human.”

Jack: meets her gaze, eyes softening “And sons?”

Jeeny: smiles sadly “They need to stop confusing strength with silence.”

Jack: nods slowly “And daughters?”

Jeeny: whispers “They need to tell their fathers they were enough — even when they weren’t perfect.”

Host: The lamplight dimmed, the city hushed. The two sat in a fragile peace — the kind that comes after a storm, when words have found their true weight.

Jack looked at Jeeny, something unspoken passing between them — understanding, or maybe forgiveness.

Host: And in that moment, August Strindberg’s words found their echo in a new light — not bitter, but human:

The father is not the enemy; he is the unsung architect of endurance.
He gives until he disappears into what he built —
a home, a memory, a heartbeat.

His tragedy is not his thanklessness —
it is that he never learned how to be loved
while still standing tall.

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. The window cleared, revealing the first fragile shimmer of dawn.

Jack exhaled slowly, setting his glass down. Jeeny reached over, her hand resting gently on his.

And for the first time that night,
neither spoke —
because silence, finally,
was no longer the language of men who loved too quietly.