Showing Up When It’s Still Complicated

Author’s Note:

I took time before deciding to publish this. This post is not about assigning blame or relitigating the past. It’s about what it feels like to try to show up as a father when the conditions aren’t yours to control, and when even small moments feel fragile.

A note about how I refer to my children on this blog:

To protect the privacy of my children, I refer to them by number rather than by any other identifiable characteristic. I have four children, ranging in age from 15 to 4. The numbers are in birth order, with #1 being the oldest and #4 referring to my youngest.

**Please note, unless otherwise stated, all images on this site are AI generated and do not resemble any real persons(s). Any resemblance to any person or place is purely coincidental.  In this case, if you're from Ottawa, the place looks familiar. The background is real, it is the CF Rideau Centre, right by the food court.  AI inserted 4 people, representative of a father and 3 children**

Yesterday, I finally saw my kids. Well, three out of four of them — #1 is still not speaking to me.

I wanted to take them to Chuck’s Roadhouse on the Market. It was affordable, and I thought it would be a quieter place for them to open their presents. #2 didn’t want to go there. On top of that, my ex didn’t want the kids opening presents with me at all. She said it would “cause a scene.”

I heard that as another reminder that even small moments with my kids still feel contested. What I wanted was simple: to see their faces, to share a moment that felt normal. Instead, it felt like I had to defend the intention behind everything.

I also asked if #4 could wear the dress I bought for her. To me, it marked the day as something special. That request was met with suspicion rather than understanding, and I felt myself pulling back instead of pushing the point. I’ve learned how quickly these moments can unravel.

I asked my ex on the phone why everything with the kids feels so complicated. She said it wasn’t her. I don’t know what to do with that answer. I’m left trying to sort out what’s real, what’s fear, and what’s just the weight of our history pressing down on every interaction. What I do know is that without shared support, I’m often negotiating alone — with my kids, with my budget, and with my own doubts.

I tried to convince #2 to go to Chuck’s Roadhouse, but she said she would only go if she got Chipotle. I told her she can’t always get her way, that I was tired of everything being her way or no way. She calmly told me it was her way or no way. Without any backup, I played along.

I met them downtown at the ByWard Market. We took a quick picture by the large outdoor Christmas tree. #3 didn’t have gloves, so I had to buy some at the dollar store. I had less than $200 on me, and even small, necessary purchases felt heavier than they should have. I bought gloves for her, for myself, and for #2 — I’d somehow forgotten mine at home. I also picked up a few salted caramel pies from McDonald’s, thinking it would be a low-cost dessert we could share.

We ended up compromising. Chipotle for #2. Chick-fil-A for the rest of us. One burrito cost more than I wanted to spend, and by the time the orders were done, I could feel the stress creeping in. Every unexpected expense felt like a reminder of how thin the margin was.

It took a while to find a table. I didn’t have the energy to compete for space or ask anyone to move. I just wanted the kids to sit down. We eventually found seats. I said grace before we ate, and #2 immediately mocked me for it. I decided that was a fight for another day.

#4 barely touched her kids’ meal. #3 had an adult meal — a deluxe spicy chicken sandwich and waffle fries. I had a spicy chicken sandwich with a frosted coffee. Something different, I guess.

After eating, I had the kids open their gifts. I hated doing it in a busy food court. The environment felt wrong. Teenagers at the next table were talking about things that weren’t appropriate for kids, and I couldn’t do much about it. This was exactly why I’d wanted to go to Chuck’s Roadhouse.

I bought #4 a Barbie set. She seemed to like it. #3 got a Lego Friends set. I hope she will like it. #2 received a Bath & Body Works gift set, and she seemed happy with it.

Even though #1 isn’t speaking to me, I bought her a gift too. I wanted her to know that she is loved, even if she’s not loving me. I chose something small, knowing it might be thrown away. Instead, she apparently told #2 to keep whatever was bought for her. I also picked up #2’s favourite scent — Black Cherry Merlot — with a refill for the bathroom at home.

We took a picture by the giant indoor Christmas tree in the mall. I was grateful for that moment. We walked past Santa, and I asked #4 if she wanted a picture. She didn’t, and I didn’t push it.

I took them on the train to get them home. Their bus was cancelled, and the next one was late. By the time I finally headed back, it had been a long day. I really didn’t feel like going home. Once the kids were gone, the silence came back fast.

I stopped at Wendy’s on the way home, thinking it might be nice to see familiar faces. It reminded me that most of what I have now are coworkers, not friends. A manager kept their distance. One coworker was genuinely kind, and I appreciated that more than I let on. I’m still learning the difference between proximity and connection.

I walked home, back to a life that still feels heavy and unfinished. I meant to write this last night, but honestly, I just couldn’t.