Cristina comes home from surgery at lunch time. She's surprised to not find Owen downstairs. She finds him still in bed, watching football on TV and eating potato chips.

"Are we not getting up today?" Cristina asks.

He merely shrugs.

She purses her lips and observes him. He doesn't look triggered, just - sad.

"Father's Day!" Cristina snaps her fingers. "I forgot it was today."

"Uh huh," he mumbles through a mouthful of chips.

"Did our children call their beloved father?" Cristina settles down on the bed beside him. "Or did they forget you exist?"

"They called," he says, holding up his phone.

"Then why are you sulking?"

He sighs. "They weren't here. This is the first year that none of them have been home."

Cristina shakes her head. "We made a huge mistake. We raised them to be independent."

He arches an eyebrow. "Not funny."

"I'm serious," she smirks. "They're scattered all over the globe, instead of living in our basement. We're terrible parents. We should be ashamed of ourselves."

"Stop it," he says, with a small smile.

"You stop it," she retorts. "Owen, they're safe. They're not off in any war zones; they're living extraordinary lives and improving the lives of others. And you're sulking in bed."

"So?"

Cristina rolls her eyes. "Take them off."

"Take what off?"

"Take off your clothes," she grins, unbuttoning her blouse. "I'm going to give you a present. Unless you'd prefer to sulk some more? Maybe we could just sit around and whine about our ungrateful children and our dead fathers?"

He picks up the remote control and turns off the TV. "I'm done sulking."

"Happy Father's Day."