My son is only four, but he already knows to ask me one important question:
“Daddy, will you be at my game?”

He never asks my wife that. Not because she loves him any less, but because he already knows she’ll be there. It’s me he’s unsure about. It’s me he’s watching.

That question hits harder than any sales target or closing deadline.

We live in a world that praises hustle. More income, more recognition, more everything. But here’s the quiet truth I’ve learned: the only people who will remember you worked late are the ones waiting at home.

…the only people who will remember you worked late are the ones waiting at home.

Your boss won’t remember you skipped bedtime stories to answer that last email. Your client won’t remember you missed the game-winning goal to squeeze in another showing. But your children? They remember.

I’ve spent years building businesses, leading teams, coaching agents, casting vision—and all of that has meaning. But none of it matches the ache I feel when I hear my son’s little voice, wondering if I’ll show up.

It’s easy to tell ourselves that the hard work is “for the family,” that we’re sacrificing now so they’ll have more later. But sometimes, the best gift we can give isn’t what money buys—it’s presence. It’s being there on the sidelines, in the stands, at the dinner table. It’s showing them that they matter more than the extra commission check.

The truth is, kids don’t care how much we make; they care how much we’re with them.

I used to think that dying for the ones you love was the ultimate sign of devotion—that to lay down your life was the greatest test of a man. But as I get older, I realize the real test isn’t whether you’d die for your family, but whether you’ll live for them—day in, day out, in the ordinary and the unseen.

This isn’t a guilt trip. We all have seasons where we’re stretched, where work pulls us longer and harder. But maybe today, we can pause and ask: What do I want my kids to remember? The size of our house? The brand of our car? Or that I was there—really there?

Because one day, they’ll stop asking if you’ll come. They’ll stop wondering if you’ll show up. And that’s the day you’ll wish you could go back.

So here’s a gentle invitation for both of us:
Let’s not miss the moments that matter most.

The office will wait. The income can grow slowly. But the hearts of our children—they grow fast.

And they’re waiting for us.

“These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.”
—Deuteronomy 6:6–7