TAKEN FOR GRANTED
TAKEN FOR GRANTED
Comfort has a way of turning into carelessness. In the beginning, Jeffrey loved every quiet evening in the apartment — the easy, domestic rhythm he and Christine had built together felt like something he'd earned. But the months blurred together, and that novelty settled into routine, and the routine settled into something worse: he stopped noticing it at all. Having a family stopped feeling like something he had to show up for. It became the backdrop of his life — a steady, warm safety net he assumed would always be there whenever he got around to it.
It happened gradually. A quick drink with old colleagues in Makati after work turned into weekly Friday nights in Poblacion, which turned into mid-week rounds of craft beer and late whiskey. He told himself he'd earned it — years of climbing the corporate ladder, he deserved to unwind with old friends. But the hours he gave them were hours he was quietly taking from home.
The first real sign was Christian's school play, a few weeks later. Christine had saved the seat beside her in the front row, camera in hand, eyes on the auditorium doors. The curtain rose, Christian delivered his lines as the lead, and the seat next to Christine stayed empty. Jeffrey texted forty minutes late — something about drinks with client contacts he "couldn't gracefully back out of."
Then their anniversary. Christine spent the afternoon cooking, setting the table with candles and the bottle of wine they'd saved since Tagaytay. By nine, the steak had gone cold, wax had pooled on the tablecloth, and the only sound in the dining room was the refrigerator humming.
Jeffrey got home past midnight smelling of gin and stale bar smoke, his coat rumpled, his apology slurring before he could even meet her eyes. He'd gotten so comfortable having a family that he'd forgotten it needed tending, the same as anything worth keeping.
The following month, the pressure at work only got worse.
His desk disappeared under spreadsheets, blueprints, and half-empty coffee cups. It was past two in the morning, and the air conditioner hummed uselessly against the tension in the room. Jeffrey rubbed his eyes, his neck stiff from hours hunched over the laptop screen.
The study door opened quietly. Christine stepped in, wrapped in an oversized cardigan against the chill, and set a mug of warm water down on the one clear edge of the desk.
"You've been at this since seven," she said. "The pitch is in forty-eight hours and you're rebuilding the whole logistics chain by yourself while running three accounts."
"I have it under control." Jeffrey didn't look up. He took a quick sip and went back to typing.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on NovelPhoenix. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Christine leaned over the desk and rested her hand on his. "Let me take the inventory audit. I can go through the supplier numbers tonight so you can focus on the deck. You don't have to carry all of it, Jeff."
He pulled his hand away — not roughly, just fast, out of habit. He straightened up and gave her a tight, dismissive smile despite the tremor of exhaustion in his eyelids.
"I'm Jeffrey Reyes, Chris. There's nothing I can't do."
The words filled the room with a confidence that left no space to argue. Christine looked at him for a long moment — at a man who thought he could hold a demanding career, a social life, and a family together without dropping any of it — then turned and closed the door softly behind her.
The breaking point came the next weekend. Jeffrey had promised Christian a Saturday trip to the park to see the treehouse.
By late afternoon, the light through the living room curtains had gone from amber to grey. Christian sat on the edge of the sofa in his favorite jacket and sneakers, backpack on his knees, watching the driveway. Every time a car passed on the street, his head snapped toward the window — and every time, his shoulders dropped when it didn't stop.
By eight, the street outside was dark. Christian was still watching the door.
"Maybe he's almost done," he said, more to himself than to Christine.
Christine knelt down and started unlacing his shoes. "Let's get you to bed, sweetheart."
"But what if he comes back and I'm asleep?"
"Then I'll wake you up," she said, and that seemed to be enough. He let her walk him upstairs without a fight, and by nine he was asleep, his face still damp from crying himself out.
Jeffrey got home after midnight, smelling of Scotch and cigarettes from celebrating a closed deal with his team. The house was silent. He caught sight of the living room clock and it hit him all at once — he'd missed the park.
The next morning he woke up early with a pounding head and went straight downstairs. Christian was already at the table, eating toast.
"Hey, buddy." Jeffrey's voice was rough. He came over and put a hand on Christian's shoulder. "Listen, about yesterday — Daddy got stuck in a meeting, and—"
"You always say that." Christian didn't look up. He said it flatly, like a fact he'd already checked twice.
"I know, but this time—"
"You said sorry after the play too." Christian slid his shoulder out from under Jeffrey's hand, picked up his glass of milk, and got down from his chair. He wasn't crying and he wasn't yelling. He just didn't look at his father on his way out of the kitchen.
Christine stood by the counter, holding her coffee with both hands, watching all of it without a word.
Jeffrey found his voice too late. He stepped into the hallway so it would carry upstairs.
"Christian — hey, listen. We don't need the park anymore. I'm building you a treehouse. Right here in the backyard. The best one you've ever seen. I promise."
There was a pause on the stairs, just long enough that Jeffrey thought he might come back down.
"That's what you said about the park," Christian said, and kept walking.
Upstairs, a door closed softly.
Jeffrey turned back to the kitchen. Christine hadn't moved. She took a slow sip of her coffee and looked at him like he was still making promises he didn't know how to keep.
For the next few days, Jeffrey tried to make good on his promise.
The treehouse became another thing he tried to fit into his already crowded schedule. Between meetings, client calls, and late nights at the office, he began sketching ideas for it, looking at plans during quiet moments and telling himself he would start construction that weekend.
Christian didn’t ask about it again.
Jeffrey noticed, but he told himself there was still time.
Then Friday arrived.
The company’s anniversary celebration had been planned for months, and by late afternoon, the entire office was already buzzing about the gala that evening. Executives were leaving early, departments were wrapping up work, and invitations had filled nearly every desk on the executive floor.
Jeffrey closed the last file on his desk and glanced at the time.
For once, the workday was over.
He stood, straightened his jacket, and reached for his phone.
There was a message from Christine.
Are we still leaving together at seven?
Jeffrey smiled faintly as he typed back.
Of course. See you downstairs.