The Absent Man

The Absent Man—Recovering the Lost Face of the Father

The Absent Man, by Dr. Scott Infante, takes you on a raw, revelatory journey through the wound of fatherlessness—his own and ours. Through poignant stories, sharp cultural insights, and a compassionate lens, this book uncovers how the absence of a father seeds narcissism and unravels society. But, it doesn’t stop there. It offers a path forward: to heal personal scars, rebuild fractured families, and restore a culture craving connection.

Fatherlessness isn’t just a personal tragedy—it’s a cultural crisis. The Absent Man is a wake-up call and a guide, blending heartfelt storytelling with unflinching analysis. Whether you have felt the sting of an absent father or you are seeking answers to our fractured world, this book will resonate, challenge, and inspire.

From the Introduciton of the Absent Man --Available for Preorder on Amazon

Launches August 1st

My father loved to drive, always taking the long way, the scenic route to nowhere special. I’m pretty sure we were on one of those winding drives, his hands casually gripping the steering wheel of his latest luxury car, tapping his cigarette in the cracked window, when he asked that cracked my world wide open. I was 14, maybe 15—time blurs when I look back, memories filed by feeling, not dates. Frustration colored his voice, a blend of exasperation and deep curiosity. Then, in a quiet moment, as if the air itself held its breath, he asked, “What’s the single-most painful event that you can remember really hurting you?” Without a pause, no filter, I blurted, “The day my dad, referring to my biological father, walked out on me when I was five.” The truth hit like a hammer, stunning us both. We sat there, the weight of it filling the car, simple yet shattering. “That makes total sense,” my dad said, his face a mix of relief and sorrow, as if he’d glimpsed the root of my chaos. For my stepfather, the man who adopted me and loved me, to hear his adopted son name that wound—the abandonment by a father of origin—could’ve been a sting. It was a scar he couldn’t heal, a gash that had built walls around my heart, walls I didn’t even know were there. I don’t recall if he asked how it shaped me, but if he did, I’d have said, “It told me I didn’t matter.”