Fatherhood
Work was relentless. The kids will want you the second you open the door. And some part of you isn't ready to go in yet.
You pull onto the drive and you don't get out.
Engine off. Lights already on inside — you can see someone moving past the window.
You love the people in that house. That's not the question.
The question is why some part of you needs a minute before you go in.
Not laziness
Eight or ten hours managing something — a client, a deadline, your own face in a meeting you didn't want to be in. Then straight into being patient with a kid who wants your full attention right now, no transition, no warning.
Nobody does that switch instantly. I don't. Doesn't mean I'm avoiding my boys. Means I haven't caught up with myself yet.
There's a difference between taking a minute and hiding in one, and if I'm honest it's not always obvious to me either. The test I use: does it end, or does it just keep finding one more minute.
The five minutes was never the problem. Doing it in guilt instead of on purpose was.
So now I try to actually take it, instead of stealing it. Three breaths. Naming it, even just in my own head — work's done, this is home now.
Some days that's enough. Some days it isn't and I walk in half there anyway. But it's a choice now, not just guilt with the engine off.