I always thought I was doing okay as a dad—not perfect, but present. When Liana’s mom, Dana, left when she was six,
I didn’t chase her. I focused on raising Liana—learning how to braid hair, picking school supplies that didn’t scream “dad chose this.”
Now she’s twelve. Still a kid, but changing fast. One night, she fell sick—shivering on the bathroom floor with her
worn blue pillow. I hesitated, then lay beside her, pulling the blanket over us. She whispered, “Thanks for staying.” I said, “Always.”
At 3 a.m., she told me something I wasn’t ready for: “Mom called. She wants to talk. But only to me.” I kept calm
and told her it was okay. “She’s still your mom,” I said. “It’s okay to miss her.”
Later, Liana said Dana wanted to visit. She asked if I’d go with her. I said yes.
Two weeks later, we met Dana at a park. I sat on a bench while they walked and talked.
When Liana looked back at me, it told me everything—she was still grounded, still mine.
Afterward, over ice cream, she said, “She smells the same… jasmine and coffee. But I’m not sure I trust her yet.”
“That’s okay,” I told her. “You don’t have to.”
Now they talk sometimes. Liana still tells me what they talk about. No secrets. No confusion.
That night on the bathroom floor taught me this: sometimes, the best way to love your child is to simply stay close.
Would you lay on the bathroom floor too?
