“Why are you saying sorry to your phone?”: The day I realized he saw my digital absences

It was a Tuesday evening, around 6:30 PM. That kind of pivotal moment where the workday isn't quite finished in my head, but family life has already reclaimed its rights. I was sitting on the living room rug next to my son, who was building a tower of blocks. Well, I was "sitting." Physically, my 165 pounds were definitely there. But my mind was busy mentally drafting a reply to an email received ten minutes earlier.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out mechanically. An apology message from a colleague for being late. Without thinking, I whispered a quick, "Oh, it's no big deal, don't worry about it," while typing a fast response.

That’s when the little voice came, piercing and terribly calm: “Daddy, why are you saying sorry to your phone?”

What we think we know: Time management

As parents, we spend a lot of time trying to "manage" our screen time. We set rules for ourselves, we try not to take the phone out at the table, we feel guilty when we scroll through Instagram when we should be reading a story. We often think the problem is the tool—that if we just put it in a drawer, the connection is restored.

We also tell ourselves that as long as we answer their questions (“Yes sweetie, your tower is great”) while glancing at our notifications, we’re managing to do both. We call it parental multitasking. We feel like we’re being efficient, keeping the ship afloat on all fronts: work, logistics, and affection.

But what that question (“Why are you saying sorry to your phone?”) made me realize is that the issue isn't so much the time I spend on my screen, but the quality of my presence. To my son, in that moment, I wasn't talking to a colleague across town. I was talking to a plastic and glass object. And above all, I was granting it a level of politeness and attention that I wasn't giving to him at that exact moment.

What it really means: The inhabited absence

This moment highlighted what could be called "inhabited absence." It’s that strange state where you are physically present, but your gaze is empty, turned inward or toward an interface.

For a child, this is confusing. They see our expressions change—a frown at a piece of news, a smile at a video—without them being the cause. They perceive an emotion that isn't intended for them. It’s as if they are living with a ghost who, every now and then, comes back to life to validate a Lego build before drifting back into its digital dimension.

When my son asked why I was talking to my phone, he wasn't angry. He was simply curious to understand why this object seemed to deserve more social consideration than he did at that moment. He saw my "digital absence" not as a work constraint, but as a relational choice.

That’s where the unease sets in. We aren't trying to do the wrong thing. We’re just trying to wrap everything up. But to them, the phone isn't a work tool or a social link: it’s a competitor.

How to reflect on it: Imperfect presence

Realizing this doesn't mean you have to throw your smartphone out the window or become a perfect parent who never checks emails before bedtime. Guilt has never helped anyone be more present.

Instead, we can start by observing those moments when we check out. Not to judge ourselves, but to see what’s happening. Was that email really urgent? Did that notification change the course of my evening? Often, the answer is no.

At Alba Time, when we started thinking about how to tell stories, we talked a lot about this evening window. That moment when you want to disconnect, but exhaustion sometimes pushes you toward the ease of the screen. The idea wasn't to replace the parent with a machine, but to create a bridge. Sometimes, audio allows for exactly that: keeping your hands free and your eyes locked with your child’s, all while being carried away by a narrative. It’s a way of saying: “We are in this bubble together, and the rest of the world can wait.”

It’s not about banning digital tools, but about putting them back in their place as tools. The day I answered my son, “You’re right, I was talking to my phone and it was a bit weird, I’m putting it away,” I saw his face light up. Not because I had stopped using my phone forever, but because I had acknowledged that, for a minute, I wasn't really there.

Accepting that our attention is fragmented is the first step toward trying, every now and then, to gather it all together. No pressure—just for the pleasure of watching the block tower fall while being truly there to cheer.