I didn't cross my heart and hope to die; I didn't swear on some relative's grave; nor did I pinky promise. What I did was tell my wife and daughter that I had been missing them, and that work had gotten the best of my time and I wanted nothing more than to spend the remainder of my weekend with them. There was no hidden agenda, no secret plan and no ulterior motive. But no sooner had the words left my lips than the seeds of disaster were sown.

First came the delivery. A buddy of mine had some extra plywood and asked if I could use it. Silly question. That's like asking Robin Williams if he wants an audience. The sheets of ply were bigger than I could store, so I decided to spend the early hours of Sunday morning ripping down lumber. I knew it wouldn't take long and I would have the rest of the day with family.

Then came the quickie. No, not that kind of quickie! My wife wanted me to build a spice rack, and since I had the tools out, I figured now was as good a time as any. Besides, I reasoned, it wouldn't take me more than 45 minutes.

Then came the long lost friend. We used to play darts together. He was the real deal, Mr. Sharpshooter. It had been a year since I had seen him last, so I invited him over for a few games of cribbage. This was far from a charity case, trust me. I wanted to see him, but something inside told me that he wanted to see me too.

Over the course of eight hours, I spent two hours cutting wood, two hours building a spice rack, and four hours visiting with an old friend. My family was around the house the whole day, but we actually didn't spend any time together.

By dinner I was spent. My wife was happy because she got her new spice rack. My daughter was happy because she and mom took a time-out at midday to hit the mall and pick up the latest "New Moon" T-shirt. Even my friend was happy — I think. But I was confused. I was proud about all that I had accomplished. I was thrilled to see an old friend. And still, I felt the loss.

On Saturday morning, I realized that what I wanted most was to spend time with my family. By Sunday evening, I had missed an opportunity. I am not sure my family even noticed, but I did. And it hurt. Don't mistake me for some guilt-ridden father or husband who one day finds his daughter has grown up and his wife has aged and that he has missed the last 20 years. This was not nearly so dramatic, but it was just as meaningful. I did all the right things, got a bunch of stuff accomplished and still felt a bit hollow. I know that I will do better next time; life is full of second chances, but there are no do-overs. Last Sunday is gone.

Michael C. DeMattos is on faculty at the University of Hawai'i Myron B. Thompson School of Social Work. Born and raised on the Wai'anae Coast, he now lives in Käne'ohe with his wife, daughter, two dogs and two mice.