RTO robbed me of precious bonding time with my kids. I've learned to connect with them in different ways.

• When I was called back to the office in 2022, I felt less connected to my kids.
• I had to hear about their accomplishments while stuck in my car in traffic.
• In early 2024, after a silent crisis with my wife and son, I found a way to spend more time at home.

On the first morning that I had to return to the office, my 4-year-old daughter appeared in the kitchen, clutching a stick-figure drawing of our house — her tiny hand insisting I take it before I left for work.

"Daddy, will you come back before the sun disappears?" she asked, staring at the window where we would usually be counting birds this early in the morning, at 6:30.

I'd been working remotely for two years, from 2020 through 2021, but in March 2022 I was called back to the office. It marked the beginning of an absence with my children that I didn't know how to fill.

Returning to the office robbed me of precious time with my kids

Between 2022 and 2023, I left at 6:30 a.m. and returned under dark skies.

My car became a territory of guilt while stuck in traffic: my wife's messages about Lucas, 7, writing "dinosaur" for the first time was my only window into a milestone I missed.

I remember the second week of April 2022, when a notification interrupted my afternoon at the office.

It was my son's teacher, her tone concerned: "Today, during free drawing time, he asked if you still live at home."

At night, I tried to reconnect. I'd rush through dinner and ask about their day, but their stories came in fragments.

"Did you see me climb the park wall?" my son asked once, chewing with his eyes glued to his plate. I hadn't, and he knew it.

Those afternoon outings — reserved for home office days when work eased up — had grown scarce. Now, back in the office, even the evening sun bore witness to my absences.

I invented gestures that fit into the cracks of time

I left a star-shaped cookie in their lunchboxes every Monday — our "secret signature" of the week.

I recorded quick voice memos during my commute. One was: "Crossing the bridge! Anyone spot a dragon around here?"

On Fridays, I'd park five blocks from home and walk while replaying their messages. It was my ritual to leave work on the street.

None of these gestures filled the void, though.

In early 2024, I had one late night at work too many

The trigger for change was a night in February 2024. I came home at 9:30 p.m. to find my wife on the stairs, holding a half-empty cup of cold tea.

My son had "cried today because you weren't here to help with his math homework," she said. "He told me only you could explain the problems."

The next day, I proposed to my boss an idea that had once felt unthinkable: reducing my time in the office to focus on freelance work that directly benefited the company. My boss agreed — "for one month." One month became 12.

The following week, I delivered a freelance project in half the time I'd set and offered another proposal: "Give me two days at home, and I'll double my output." It worked.

Since March 2024, I've worked three days remotely and two days in the office

My new schedule isn't the perfect solution but it's made a huge difference

On office days, I leave at 7:15 a.m. — 45 minutes later than before. These extra minutes are revelatory. When I left at 6:30 a.m., my attempts to connect to my kids had been drowned in the rush.

Now, I have breakfast with them. I prepare scrambled eggs with cheese, which I try to cut into heart shapes, and we discuss their school schedule, after-school activities, and weekend plans.

In both of my children's lunch boxes, I tuck a shirt button with a note: "Press this if you miss me." (At dinner one day, my son told me he pressed it 20 times.)

Then, I drive them to school. Being there to hear their "Bye, Daddy!" as they hop out of the car is everything. That alone rewrites the meaning of a "productive morning" for me.

What I lost and learned

Yes, I missed things while I was in the office: I wasn't there when my daughter overcame her fear of the tall slide or when my son read his first sentence by himself.

Ultimately, though, I learned a valuable lesson: Kids don't need parents who are always there — they need parents who can turn five minutes into memories.

For two years, I carried the weight of exhaustion and grief on my shoulders. Today, my kids no longer remember the mornings I left at 6:30 a.m., but they keep the magic button in their treasure drawer.

In my wallet, I keep a crumpled drawing from that first morning in 2022: a scribbled sun labeled "Daddy, come back before dark." I came back. Not always on time, but always with the same certainty: They are the only projects I'll have for the rest of my life.