It’s my dad’s birthday this weekend. He won’t want anyone to know that. He doesn’t like a fuss. Doesn’t want balloons or cards or sentimental Instagram posts—he’d rather just have his Heineken, a smoke with his morning coffee, and maybe a decent meal he didn’t have to cook. But I’m writing this anyway, because sometimes the quiet heroes deserve to be seen—even when they’d rather disappear into the background.

Yes, I am 41 and I keep a diary. Not a bullet journal. Not a gratitude notebook. A full-blown, messy, unfiltered diary.

I didn’t go to work looking for friendship. I went for the cheque, the benefits, the illusion of stability. Like most of us. I kept my head down, did the job, played nice in meetings, and dipped when the clock hit 4:59.