Jakob Opheim

I don’t know how much seventy billion tons really is. I just know it changed everything.

Two years ago, the drills hit phosphate down near Sokndal, Norway. Not just a bit, but a crazy amount. My dad’s company, which used to be a total mess, is now one of the most talked-about mining companies in Europe. They say the phosphate here could feed the whole world for fifty years. That’s what the adults say, anyway. At school, kids just say my dad’s loaded.

We used to live in a small white house with flaking paint and a heater that made weird noises. I remember Mum wrapping our feet in towels when the floor got too cold. Now we have underfloor heating. And a sauna. And a view of the fjord from almost every room. But it’s quiet. Too quiet sometimes.

I’m fourteen, and I barely see my dad anymore. He used to make waffles on Sundays. Now he’s in Oslo or Brussels or some mine planning meeting that sounds more like a codeword for “not coming home.” When I ask Mum where he is, she just says, “He’s working.” Like that’s a good enough reason to miss dinner five nights in a row.

Once, I heard him on the phone saying, “This could be bigger than oil.” He looked out the window like the fjord was going to answer him. When he hung up, I asked him if that meant he could finally stop working so much. He just smiled weirdly and said, “Now’s when the real work begins.”

I think rich people are even more tired than poor people. We used to worry about bills. Now we worry about contracts, security, politics. I don’t even know what most of that means. But I know Dad's tired all the time. And I know I’d trade a few million tons of phosphate just to have him at my football game.

Maybe the world needs our phosphate. Maybe it helps with batteries or space rockets or fertilizer. But I need my dad. And sometimes, I wonder if he remembers that.