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I’ve always thought of myself as a good dad. Not perfect—far from it—but solid. Present. I never misses a parent-teacher night, learned how to pack a halfway decent lunch, and I can braid a French plait in under ten minutes, which I think should count for something. Liana, my daughter, came into this world during a storm so fierce the hospital lost power for a moment. And honestly, sometimes it feels like I’ve been running through a storm ever since. Not a destructive one—just constant. The kind that makes you tired, but also teaches you how to keep going.
Her mom, Dana, left when Liana was six. One day, she sat me down and said she needed to “find herself,” like she was lost in a book she never meant to start. I didn’t chase her. I wanted to—I wanted to scream, plead, bargain—but instead, I stayed. I stayed because a six-year-old was looking at me with wide, confused eyes and needed me to know which notebooks were cool and which ones would get her teased. I learned the difference between lip balm and gloss, memorized the lyrics to Taylor Swift songs I never thought I’d hear on repeat, and figured out how to walk the tightrope between parent and confidant.
Now Liana’s twelve. She’s got that sharp kind of intelligence that makes adults nervous. She’s into true crime podcasts and can read a person in seconds flat—what they’re hiding, what they want. It’s impressive, and a little terrifying. She's growing up fast, faster than I’d like. There are moments now when she looks at me like she’s trying to understand me, too. Like she’s asking questions I’m not sure I’m ready to answer.
Then came that night.
She skipped dinner, which was rare—she loves food, always has. Said her stomach hurt, but didn’t make a big deal about it. Later, I found her curled up on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a blanket, shivering. I didn’t think, I just laid down next to her. Tile floor, middle of the night, no plan. I reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear, asked if she wanted anything. She shook her head, eyes shut tight.
“Thanks for staying,” she whispered.
“Always,” I said. I meant it. Not just in the moment, but with every part of me. Always. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
Around 3 a.m., while I was drifting in and out of sleep beside her, she spoke again. Told me her mom had called. Said Dana wanted to talk—but only to her. That she didn’t ask about me, didn’t say much except that she was thinking of visiting. Liana looked away as she said it, like she was scared of how I’d react. But I didn’t get angry. No yelling, no bitterness. Just a dull ache in my chest, like an old bruise someone pressed on.
She said she wasn’t sure if she wanted to see her. That she had questions, but not enough answers yet to know what she hoped for. I told her that was okay. That whatever she chose, I’d be right there with her, even if it meant taking a step back.
Two weeks later, Dana flew in. We agreed to meet at a park—neutral ground. I stayed at a distance, pretending to scroll on my phone while watching their reunion unfold. Liana stood stiff at first, arms crossed, but eventually relaxed. They hugged. Talked. Laughed a little. Afterward, Liana told me Dana still smelled like jasmine and coffee, but it felt different now. The connection wasn’t automatic. The trust wasn’t immediate. And that, too, was okay.
We talked about how healing doesn’t always come in a straight line, and how sometimes you need space to decide who someone really is to you. Now, Liana still talks to her mom from her room. She doesn’t hide it from me. No whispering, no secrecy. Just quiet, honest conversations I don’t try to intrude on.
That night on the bathroom floor changed something in me. It reminded me that sometimes, the most powerful thing you can offer someone—especially your child—is your presence. No advice, no fixing. Just being there. Showing them they’re not alone, even when you have no control over what’s coming next.
Because when your kid starts pulling away, searching for pieces of themselves or others, it’s not always your job to hold them tighter. Sometimes, it’s your job to stay put. To become the constant they can count on when everything else feels uncertain.
And yeah, I’d lie down on that bathroom floor again. A thousand times if she needed me to.
Would you?
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