Shuuji had always believed that providing was enough.
Work had demanded his time, his attention, his energy, and he had told himself—more than once—that this was what being a father meant. He worked so his family would never lack anything. He worked so the house could remain standing, so their lives could continue without fear.
Somewhere along the way, he had mistaken presence for responsibility.
Yuma returned home late that afternoon, slipping quietly through the front door, his bag slung over one shoulder. He paused when he noticed the lights still on in the living room.
Shuuji was waiting.
Not standing. Not pacing. Simply seated, his posture stiff, his hands resting on his knees as though he had been there for some time. He looked up when Yuma entered, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Sit,” Shuuji said gently. Not an order. A request.
Yuma hesitated, then complied, lowering himself onto the opposite sofa. His expression remained composed, guarded, as though bracing himself for something he could not yet name.
Shuuji inhaled slowly.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, his voice rougher than he intended, “about how much of your life I’ve missed.”
Yuma did not respond.
“I wasn’t there,” Shuuji continued, forcing the words forward, “on your sports days. I told myself I’d go next year, every year, and somehow next year never came. I never stood in the crowd looking for you. I never clapped when you crossed the line.”
His fingers tightened.
“I wasn’t there during your school festivals either. I heard about them through others—what class you were in, what role you played—but I never saw it myself. I never walked through the gates, never looked for your face in the noise.”
Yuma’s gaze lowered, his jaw set.
“And when you checked your university admission results,” Shuuji said quietly, “I wasn’t there then either.”
That one lingered.
“I should have been beside you,” he said, his voice dropping. “I should have waited with you, shared the fear, the hope, the moment it all became real. Instead, you stood there alone, holding something that should have been celebrated.”
Shuuji swallowed.
“You got in,” he said. “On your own merit. Your effort. Your discipline. Your persistence. And I said congratulations like it was an afterthought.”
His eyes burned, though he did not allow the tears to fall.
“You were always doing well,” he went on. “You never caused trouble. You never asked for much. And I took that as proof that you didn’t need me.”
He exhaled, long and heavy.
“I was wrong.”
Silence settled between them, thick and unmoving.
“I should have made time,” Shuuji said finally. “Not when it was convenient. Not when everything else was done. I should have made time because you mattered. Because you were my son.”
Yuma’s hands clenched lightly in his lap.
Shuuji bowed his head, deeply this time, the way he had never bowed to his child before.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For every moment I chose something else over you. For every achievement you carried alone. For every time you looked into the crowd and didn’t find me.”
He straightened slowly.
“I can’t give those moments back,” he admitted. “But I want to acknowledge them now. I want you to know that I see them. I see you.”
Yuma stood.
The movement was sudden enough that Shuuji flinched, but Yuma did not leave immediately. He paused, his voice steady when he finally spoke.
“…I stopped expecting you,” he said.
It was not said with anger.
It was said like a fact.
Yuma turned and walked away, his footsteps quiet as he disappeared down the corridor.
Shuuji remained where he was, staring at the space his son had occupied moments before, understanding at last that regret did not demand forgiveness—and that acknowledgement, no matter how sincere, could never erase the cost of absence.
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