“Just go work at the grocery store,” Evelyn said matter-of-factly.

Isabella, pushing her face into the frame of the camera, agreed.

“Go work there in the morning and then you won’t be gone so long.”

The twins the discussed the logistics of the arrangement amongst themselves, as I stood motionless outside a manufacturing plant watching the choppy video feed. A long business trip makes ideas that inspire change look reasonable, but working at the local grocer was an unlikely outcome. Though as machinery clanged in the background, their idea seemed better than any idea I had considered lately.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

This was the honest truth; I never overstayed when working on the road for clients. I worked on the edge of time and missed client happy hours and dinners. This lacking social standing has no doubt cost me business over the years. Too often I sprinted to and from planes trying feverishly to get closer to home; some flights were so lightly traveled that flight crews often didn’t show up. Who can blame them; no one wants to work the 3am shift.

All the running in the world can’t fix not being home, and the deep hurt isn’t to be overlooked. Calls with my children are a welcome treat but the effect is short lived.

“We miss you, I miss you, please just come home now.”

Every call has this statement, the direct request by a broken hearted kid who hasn’t seen you in a month. Doesn’t matter that I know that statement is coming, doesn’t matter if I prepare myself, it knocks me off my feet. I choke back tears and my voice trembles and it’s as if I’m falling from the top of a high cliff.

“I know sweetheart, but I have to work. There’s bills and medical exp…” I stop myself; my kids know why any given person works. They’re not sheltered from the realities of life but I feel my pessimism kicking in, that fall turning into a spiral of destructive speech. I stop myself.

“I love you girls. I’ll be home as soon as you can.”

“Okay Dad. When you come home and we go to the store, we’ll ask them if you can work there.”

The call ends abruptly. Left holding an empty screen, motionless and dark, I put back on my hardhat and wipe away a stray tear. My plane leaves in a week, three stops and one long drive back. Until then, I do the work. That, and I probably won’t be able to walk into a grocery store.