The Price of Happiness

“You never listen to me, Dad! You’re always working!”

Ethan’s words hit me harder than any punch. He stood in the doorway to my small, cluttered living room, backpack slung over his shoulder, his face flushed with a mix of teenage anger and something more fragile—a plea I’d ignored too many times. The TV in the apartment next door blared some game show, and somewhere down the hall, an argument escalated into shouted curses. I wanted to shut it all out, but his words echoed in my mind, bouncing off the bare walls.

“Ethan, I—”

“No, just forget it.” He grabbed his phone, thumbed a message, and avoided my eyes. I felt the familiar ache in my chest, that old mixture of guilt and exhaustion. I’d promised myself I’d never become the kind of father who was never there. But when you’re running the rat race in New York, promises get lost in subway delays and endless overtime.

I slumped onto the couch—the same faded gray couch I’d bought with my ex-wife, Emily, right after we moved into our first apartment. Back then, we’d laughed about how it swallowed you whole if you sat wrong. Now, it seemed to swallow whole all my regrets.

The apartment was quiet except for the distant city sounds: a police siren, the muffled thump of bass from a party two floors up, the occasional clatter of footsteps on the fire escape. I remembered how, years ago, I’d loved these sounds. They made me feel connected, part of this sprawling city. Somewhere along the way, they’d become reminders of everything I’d failed to hold onto.

My phone buzzed. Emily’s name flashed on the screen. I hesitated, then answered.

“Marek, I’m sorry to bother you, but did Ethan leave his math book there?” Her voice was tired, a little impatient.

“He’s still here.” I looked over, but Ethan had retreated to his room. “I’ll check.”

“Please tell him to come home by eight. He’s got school tomorrow.”

I wanted to say something more—apologize, maybe—but the words caught in my throat. We’d had this conversation a hundred times since the divorce. Every time, it was more strained. She hung up before I could find the right words.

I knocked on Ethan’s door. “Your mom called. She wants you home by eight.”

No response. I opened the door a crack. Ethan sat cross-legged on the bed, headphones on, staring at his phone. I remembered being that age, wanting nothing more than to be left alone, certain no one could possibly understand.

I cleared my throat. “You left your math book. Want me to help with your homework?”

He looked up, eyes narrowed. “Why? So you can rush off to check your emails?”

I almost snapped back, but stopped myself. He wasn’t wrong. Last week, I’d cut our dinner short to take a call from my boss. Two weeks ago, I’d forgotten his school play. The relentless grind of my job at the tech startup—once my ticket to a better life—was slowly erasing the life I already had.

“I’m sorry, Ethan. I’m really trying.”

He shrugged and went back to his phone, and I closed the door gently, feeling the distance stretch between us. I wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared at the leftovers—takeout containers, half a pizza from last night—and closed it again. I used to cook every Sunday. Ethan would help, and Emily would dance around the kitchen, singing along to some old Bruce Springsteen song. That was before the layoffs, the move, the endless hours spent trying to stay afloat.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was my boss. “Marek, I need those reports by midnight. Sorry, man. Crunch time.”

I stared at the message. There it was—the price of chasing success. I’d climbed the ladder, but the view from the top was just more ladders.

I walked back to the living room. Ethan was leaving, backpack slung over his shoulder. He paused at the door.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

He hesitated. “Are you coming to my game on Saturday?”

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to promise. But I saw my laptop open, the emails piling up, the deadlines looming. I remembered the last time I’d made that promise, and how he’d scanned the stands, his face falling when he didn’t see me.

“I’ll try, Ethan. I really will.”

He nodded, not meeting my eyes. “It’s okay. Mom said she’d come.”

The door closed behind him. I sat on the couch, head in my hands. The sounds of the city filtered in through the double-paned windows: laughter, shouting, sirens. I wondered how many fathers sat in apartments just like mine, haunted by the same choices.

Later, in the quiet dark, I called Emily. She answered on the second ring.

“Marek?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. For everything.”

She was silent for a moment. “You’re not a bad father, Marek. You’re just… lost.”

I swallowed. “I want to do better. For Ethan.”

“So do it,” she said, and hung up.

I lay back on the couch, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. I thought about the sacrifices I’d made, the hours traded for a paycheck, the moments with my son slipping through my fingers. Was this the price of happiness in America? Was it worth it?

If you had to choose between success and the people you love, which would you choose? Or is it possible to have both—and not lose yourself in the process?