On Father’s Day, my husband Brad disappeared for five hours, abandoning the thoughtful celebration our two young sons and I had spent weeks planning. When he finally came home—laughing, sweaty, and drunk with six of his friends—he expected dinner like nothing had happened. That was the moment I snapped.

As a full-time working mom to two boys, ages six and four, I juggle everything—school prep, dinner, laundry, bedtime—while Brad winds down with video games and excuses. He loves our kids, sure, but leaves the real parenting to me. Still, I hoped Father’s Day would be different. The boys handmade cards, helped cook his favorite breakfast, and we surprised him with tickets to a car show he always talked about.

Instead, he grumbled at breakfast, barely acknowledged their cards, and claimed he had to run to the store. He never came back. We missed the car show. The kids were heartbroken. Then at 7:30 p.m., in barges Brad with his drinking buddies, shouting, “What’s for dinner?” as if we hadn’t just been crushed by his absence.

I didn’t scream. I smiled. Then I assigned chores to every one of his friends—dishes, bedtime stories, bathroom duty—and made Brad cook. When they finished, I played a slideshow of the day—the empty spaces where their father should have been. Silence. They left embarrassed. Brad apologized the next morning, genuinely. Since then, he’s been reading bedtime stories every night. Maybe shame can be a first step to change.