It was a Sunday afternoon, about a decade ago, when my oldest son, Mateo, was three. I remember it vividly—not because it was a picture-perfect moment, but because it wasn’t.

I was sprawled on my bed, barely conscious, as a movie played on the TV. Mateo lay beside me, his head resting on my chest, eagerly watching, probably hoping his dad might come alive and join in.

But I was too tired. Exhausted, really. I was there, but not there.

Physically present, yes. Emotionally? Absolutely not.