I went home this past Sunday, for my dad’s 70th, a big one. My eldest sister insisted we all meet at the community hall, the one with the sticky floor and the plastic chairs that dig into your thighs. You know the type. My wife, bless her, tried to make conversation with my cousin’s kid who just grunted from behind his iPad. My own kids, well, they were doing the same, just with slightly smaller screens. I felt that familiar tightness in my chest, the one that says *you’re here again, same old same old.* Dad was trying. He really was. He had his little speech ready, about how he learned so much in his time at the plant, about life and people and what really mattered. He’d polished it up, I could tell, probably practiced it in front of the mirror, the way he used to do before his union meetings. He even had a bit about 'the value of hard work' and 'looking out for your mates'. Old school, but sincere. And frankly, after seventy years of busting his ass, he earned the right to say whatever he wanted. He started, cleared his throat, and I looked up, gave him a nod. My sister, the doctor, was checking her texts. My brother, the one who moved to Calgary and thinks he’s too good for us now, was scrolling through something on his phone, a sports score maybe. The nieces and nephews? They were in their own digital cocoons, faces lit by the glow of TikTok and Roblox. Not one of them, not *one*, even glanced his way. It was like he was talking to an empty room, except the room was full of people he loved, people he’d raised, people he’d worked his fingers to the bone for. I saw the light go out in his eyes. Just… poof. Like a match struck in the wind. He faltered, mumbled the last few sentences, his voice shrinking to nothing. No one noticed. Not truly. My sister just looked up long enough to say, “Oh, did you finish, Dad? That’s nice.” Then back to her phone. My brother grunted something about the game. The kids didn't even register it. My wife caught my eye, a small, sad frown. She knew. She always does. It hit me then, a cold wave. This isn't just about Dad. This is about all of us. This is me in thirty years, probably. Or twenty. Or maybe even ten. All the things I’m doing now, all the sacrifices, the double shifts, the constant worry about making rent and putting food on the table – what’s it for? To be ignored? To be a background hum in my kids’ lives, while they chase dopamine hits on their little screens? *C’est la vie*, I suppose, but it felt like a punch to the gut. I thought about all the advice I’ve given my kids, the little lectures about saving money, about being kind, about looking people in the eye. All the times I’ve told them stories about growing up, about how different things were. Do they even hear me? Or am I just another old guy droning on, waiting for my moment to fade into the wallpaper? The thought made my stomach clench. We ate cake, the store-bought kind with too much frosting, and everyone went back to their phones. Dad sat there, quietly, picking at his slice. He looked smaller, somehow. Older than 70. More like 80. Or 90. I wanted to say something, anything, but what? “Hey everyone, put your damn phones down and listen to the man who gave you everything?” What good would that do? They wouldn’t hear me either. The whole drive home, my wife kept trying to get me to talk about it. “Are you okay?” she’d ask, and I’d just shrug. Because what’s there to say? It’s not a dramatic fight. No one yelled. No one said anything mean. It was just… indifference. A quiet, pervasive indifference that eats away at you, bit by bit, until there’s nothing left but dust. And it scares the living hell out of me that I’m starting to feel it too. This hollow ache that’s just… there. Not screaming, not crying, just there. Like a dull toothache you learn to live with.