The Smile that worked overtime

The Smile That Worked Overtime

Ravi Kumar was known in his office as the guy who never said no. A senior analyst at a top corporate firm in Bangalore, he was admired for his dedication, his calm demeanor, and the way he managed pressure like it was a second skin. But what no one knew was that the very skin was starting to crack.

Each morning, Ravi left home before the sun rose, quietly tiptoeing past his children's bedroom. He’d glance at their sleeping faces for a moment longer than necessary, silently promising himself he’d make it back in time for dinner. But dinner was often cold by the time he returned — if he returned at all before they slept again.

His wife, Meera, had once loved his ambition. She still did. But now, it shared space with loneliness. Their late-night conversations had slowly reduced to tired nods and sleepy silences. She never complained. She knew he worked hard for them — the school fees, the EMIs, the medical insurance — all of it came with a price tag that Ravi paid not just with his salary but with his presence.

On his son Arjun’s 8th birthday, Ravi had promised he’d come home early. Arjun had even kept a tiny paper crown ready for his “King Appa.” But a last-minute client meeting extended beyond sunset. By the time Ravi reached home, Arjun was asleep on the couch, still clutching the crown.

Ravi sat beside him, tears welling up as he gently removed the crown from his son's hands and placed it on his own head. He whispered, "I’m sorry, champ," though he knew the apology would be buried under tomorrow’s missed promises.

The next day at work, he smiled like he always did — answering emails, attending meetings, motivating juniors. No one noticed that behind that smile was a man torn between duty and love.

It wasn’t that Ravi didn’t want to change things. But he didn’t know how. He was caught in the web of responsibility — the very thing that made him strong was now slowly making him invisible at home.

He began waking up five minutes earlier just to sip chai with Meera. He’d record voice notes for Arjun and his daughter Anya, telling them bedtime stories in his own voice. They missed him — but they heard him.

Some evenings, he forced himself to log off at six. It wasn’t always possible. But when it was, he’d come home to his children running toward him and Meera smiling from the kitchen. Those moments — though few — gave him the strength to keep going.

The world saw a man winning in life. But behind that success was a father, a husband, a man quietly fading, with a smile that worked overtime.

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Dear Arjun,

I know I’ve missed too many moments — your laughter at dinner, your stories after school, even your birthdays. Every late evening at work felt like a sacrifice for a better future, but I now see the cost — your growing years I’ll never get back.

That night, when I found you asleep with the paper crown, something in me shattered. I wanted to be your hero, but I realized I was becoming a stranger.

I’m trying now — even if it’s just a five-minute chai with Amma or a bedtime voice note for you and Anya. I may not always be home, but I carry you with me in every decision, every meeting, every tired breath.

One day, I hope you’ll understand.

With love,

Appa.