My daughter, Liana, was born during a storm so strong that the hospital briefly lost power, and I’ve always considered myself to be a good father. I’m not perfect, but I’m present, I never miss a parent-teacher night, I’ve learned how to pack a halfway decent lunch, and I can braid a French plait in less than ten minutes, which I believe should count for something. Since then, it feels like I’ve been navigating a storm ever since, but it’s one that wears you out but teaches you how to keep going.
When Liana was six years old, her mother, Dana, left. One day, she sat me down and said she needed to “find herself,” as if she were lost in a book she never intended to start. I didn’t follow her—I wanted to scream, beg, or bargain—but I stayed because a six-year-old was staring at me with wide, bewildered eyes and needed me to tell her which notebooks were cool and which ones would make her feel teased. I learned the difference between lip balm and gloss, learned the lyrics to Taylor Swift songs I never imagined hearing them repeatedly, and figured out how to balance being a 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.
Liana looked away as she said it, as if she was afraid of my reaction, 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. She said 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. She spoke again around three in the morning, as I was drifting in and out of sleep next to her, as I was drifting in and out of sleep.
Dana flew in two weeks later, and we decided to meet at a neutral park. I watched their reunion unfold from a distance, pretending to scroll through my phone. Liana stood stiff at first, arms crossed, but then relaxed. They hugged, talked, and laughed a little. Later, Liana told me that although Dana still smelled like coffee and jasmine, it felt different now. We discussed how healing doesn’t always happen right away and how sometimes you need space to figure out who someone truly is to you. Now, Liana still speaks to her mom from her room, and she doesn’t hide it from me.
That night on the bathroom floor changed me because it made me realize that sometimes the most powerful thing you can do for someone, especially your child, is simply to be there. You don’t have to give them advice or fix them; sometimes you just need to show them that they’re not alone, even when you have no control over what will happen next. Because when your child starts to pull away and start looking for pieces of themselves or others, it’s not always your job to hold them tighter; sometimes you just need to be there and be the constant they can rely on when everything else feels uncertain. And yes, I would lie down on that bathroom floor a thousand times if she needed me.