When you have kids, you instantly feel that you do not want to do

Host: The morning had barely begun. A dim light spilled through the blinds, slanting across a small, cluttered kitchen. The smell of coffee mixed with the faint scent of burnt toast. A radio hummed low in the background, caught between static and an old blues song.

Host: At the table sat Jack, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, his eyes hollow with sleeplessness. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the counter, a quiet warmth in her gaze, watching him with that kind of still attention that says more than words.

Host: On the folded newspaper between them, a single line was underlined in blue ink:
“When you have kids, you instantly feel that you do not want to do them wrong. Those dads that go off to Florida and start a new life, I couldn't imagine that: seeing my kid once every Christmas, every three years. If I'm gone for six days it feels like too much.” — Adam Carolla.

Jack: (softly, half to himself) Six days feels like too much… I get that. It’s not guilt exactly—it’s gravity. You don’t realize how much of yourself you’ve poured into them until you walk away and feel hollow.

Jeeny: (gently) That’s love, Jack. The kind that pulls instead of pushes.

Jack: (bitterly) Yeah, but not everyone feels it. You’ve seen it—people vanish. Fathers vanish. They start new lives, tell themselves it’s cleaner, easier, less noise. I’ve known men like that. Hell, I’ve envied them sometimes.

Jeeny: (walking closer) Envied them?

Jack: (nodding slowly) For their freedom. No bedtime stories, no school runs, no constant fear that you’re screwing it up. Just... quiet.

Jeeny: (softly) And emptiness.

Host: The radio clicked to silence. The house held still, every sound amplified—the clock’s ticking, the slow drip of the faucet, the quiet weight of something unsaid.

Jack: (staring at his coffee) You know, I used to think fatherhood was about providing. A paycheck, a roof, food on the table. That’s what my old man said. “Be there through work.” But he was never there at home.

Jeeny: (nodding) He built the house but never lived inside it.

Jack: (smirking sadly) Exactly. He’d say he loved us, but he never looked us in the eyes when he said it. He’d already be looking past us—at the bills, the job, the clock. And now I catch myself doing the same thing.

Jeeny: (softly, but firm) The difference is—you see it. That means there’s still time to stop.

Host: Sunlight crept higher, cutting a clean line across the table, dividing light from shadow. Jack’s face lingered on the darker side, his expression caught somewhere between guilt and longing.

Jack: You think love’s enough? Just showing up, saying the right things, reading bedtime stories?

Jeeny: (quietly) Love isn’t the goal, Jack. It’s the ground. It’s where you start.

Jack: (frowning) That sounds nice, but it’s vague. Kids don’t care about philosophy—they care about presence.

Jeeny: (nodding) Then give them that. Presence isn’t perfection. It’s choosing to stay, even when you’re tired, when you’re broken, when you’d rather escape.

Host: A faint wind stirred the curtains, and the morning light shifted, touching Jeeny’s face with warmth. Her eyes held a softness that was almost maternal.

Jack: (quietly) I’m afraid, Jeeny. Not of leaving—of staying and failing.

Jeeny: (gently) Everyone fails, Jack. The only failure that matters is absence.

Jack: (with a strained laugh) You make it sound so simple.

Jeeny: (shaking her head) It’s not simple. It’s sacred. You can’t measure it in days or gestures. You measure it in the small, unspoken things—how you listen, how you forgive, how you keep showing up.

Host: A pause fell—long, heavy, filled with the pulse of old memories. Jack’s fingers drummed softly on the table, like a man fighting to hold something fragile.

Jack: (quietly) When I left for work last week, my daughter cried. Just a short trip, six days. I told her I’d bring back something from the airport. She didn’t care about that. She just said, “Don’t miss bedtime too many times.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) That’s her way of saying, “I need your presence, not your souvenirs.”

Jack: (voice trembling slightly) I told myself I was doing it for her—for the family. But somewhere between those flights, I started asking who I was really doing it for.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s when you start to become the kind of father who changes the story.

Host: The coffee pot hissed softly as if sighing. The kitchen filled with a slow, amber light that softened the harsh corners of the room.

Jack: I look at those guys—divorced, suntanned, living in condos in Florida—and I wonder... how do they sleep? How do they silence the sound of what they left behind?

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe they don’t. Maybe that’s why they drink, why they keep moving. You can run from everything—except the child that lives in your conscience.

Jack: (looking at her) You think fatherhood is redemption?

Jeeny: I think it’s reflection. Children make us see what we’ve hidden. The parts we ignored. The versions of ourselves that need to heal.

Jack: (murmuring) So that’s why it hurts so much. They’re mirrors we can’t look away from.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Exactly. That’s what makes it holy.

Host: The light brightened as the sun rose, spilling gold across the floorboards, like grace creeping into the cracks of a weary heart.

Jack: You know, when Carolla said he couldn’t imagine being away for six days, I thought he was exaggerating. But now I get it. Distance isn’t measured in miles—it’s measured in missed moments.

Jeeny: (nodding) And those moments are the currency of love. You spend them or you lose them.

Host: Jack leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. His breathing steadied, deepened, like someone letting go of a long-held weight.

Jack: (quietly) I want to do it right, Jeeny. I don’t know how—but I want to.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s the beginning. Not knowing, but choosing anyway. Every morning, every bedtime—it’s a vow.

Host: The radio crackled back to life, the same old blues song drifting through the air. The lyrics spoke of home, of returning, of love that waits even when it’s tested.

Jack: (smiling faintly) You ever notice how every song about love is also about coming home?

Jeeny: (gently) That’s because they’re the same thing.

Host: The light fell across their faces, bright and fragile. The moment felt suspended—like a prayer whispered between two souls learning to believe again.

Jack: (softly) Maybe being a good father isn’t about being perfect. Maybe it’s about being present enough to learn.

Jeeny: (smiling) That’s all your child needs to see—that you’re learning, too. That love grows alongside them.

Host: Outside, a bird called from the power line, its voice cutting clean through the hum of the city waking. The world moved, slow and forgiving.

Host: Jack looked down at the newspaper, tracing the quote one last time. The ink had smudged slightly under his thumb, as though softened by the warmth of his touch.

Jack: (quietly) “Truth is still beautiful... but so frightening.” Funny—maybe the same’s true of love.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe they’re the same thing, Jack. The truth of love, the love of truth—they both demand the same thing of us. To stay.

Host: The clock ticked louder now, marking not the end of time, but its renewal. Jack rose, picked up his keys, and looked toward the door—not to leave forever, but to return again, and again, with intention.

Host: The light caught him as he turned—a man imperfect, uncertain, but present. The kind of man who, even when the world pulls him away, finds his way back home before the sixth day.

Host: Outside, the morning had fully broken. The sky stretched wide, forgiving, endless. And somewhere between the coffee and the quiet, a father began again—not with certainty, but with love.