I always thought I had a good handle on being a dad. Not a perfect one, but present, reliable. Liana was born during a stormy August night, and it feels like I’ve been running through thunderstorms ever since. Not bad ones—just the kind that remind you life’s rarely calm. Her mother, Dana, left when Liana was six. Said she needed to “find herself.” I didn’t chase her. Maybe I should’ve, but I was too busy learning how to braid hair and shop for school supplies that didn’t scream “my dad picked this out.”
Now Liana’s twelve. Still a kid, but also not. Her voice is changing—more certain, less sing-songy. She’s into true crime podcasts and always knows which of her classmates are lying about something. She’s good at reading people. She gets that from her mom.
That night, she couldn’t keep anything down. It started with her skipping dinner, which never happens. By bedtime, she was curled on the bathroom tile, shivering despite the blanket and holding that worn blue pillow she’s had since kindergarten. The one she named “Ocean” because of its color, even though now it’s more gray than blue.
I hovered in the hallway at first. I’d already brought her water and some crackers, set up the trash can beside her. I figured maybe she wanted space—she’s been asking for more of that lately, closing her door more often, keeping secrets I pretend not to notice. But when I leaned in and saw her trembling, eyes half-closed and skin pale like candle wax, something pulled me in.
I grabbed the couch pillow, didn’t even bother changing out of my pajama pants, and laid down next to her. No hesitation. I pulled part of her blanket over us and rested my arm lightly over her shoulder.
She didn’t say much. Just turned her face toward me and murmured, “Thanks for staying.”
I said, “Always,” and meant it with every cell in my body.
Time moved slow. The floor was unforgiving, pressing into my hip and shoulder, but I didn’t care. I could hear the hallway clock ticking in the silence. I could feel how fast time was moving even though the moment itself felt frozen. She’s growing up too fast, I thought. There won’t be many more nights like this. Soon enough, she’ll push me away for good, not just in little ways. She’ll be out with friends or tucked away in her room with her music and texts and secrets. I’ll be on the outside again.
Around 3 a.m., just when I thought she’d finally dozed off, she whispered something so faint I wasn’t sure I caught it.
“Dad… I have to tell you something. Mom called.”
I blinked.
She hadn’t mentioned Dana in months. Not since Christmas, when we got a generic card with no return address and a barely-legible signature.
Before I could ask anything, Liana added, “She said she wants to talk. But only to me.”
I felt something hard and cold settle in my chest. Not jealousy. Not anger, exactly. Just… that old ache I’d nearly forgotten.
“What did she say?” I asked carefully, trying to keep my voice even.
“She just asked how I’ve been. Said she’s been thinking about me a lot. And that she wants to call again. But she said not to tell you. That it’d make things harder.”
I swallowed. Dana had a way of making everything harder, whether she meant to or not. But this wasn’t about her. It was about Liana. And I didn’t want her to feel like she had to keep secrets just to keep the peace.
“You can talk to her,” I said. “I won’t stop you.”
Liana turned her head slightly, her eyes glinting in the dark. “You’re not mad?”
“Sweetheart, of course I’m not mad. She’s still your mom.”
“But she left.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “She did. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still love her, or want to talk to her. That’s okay. Really.”
She didn’t say anything for a while, and I figured she’d fallen asleep. I was just about to close my eyes when she spoke again.
“She said she might want to visit.”
My body tensed without meaning to. That was the line we hadn’t crossed. Dana hadn’t seen Liana in nearly two years, not since she moved to Arizona with some guy who sold used motorcycles.
“Did she say when?”
“She said maybe next month. She asked if I wanted to.”
“And do you?”
Liana hesitated. “I don’t know. I miss her. But I don’t really remember what she’s like anymore. I remember the things she said, how she used to sing in the car, but I don’t know her now. What if I see her and it just feels weird?”
I exhaled slowly. “Then it feels weird. And you can come right back to me. No judgment.”
She rolled over then, inching a little closer. “Would you come with me? If I said I wanted to see her?”
My throat tightened. “Yeah. I’d come.”
She didn’t answer, but she pressed her forehead into my shoulder, and that was enough.
Two weeks later, Dana flew in. We met at a public park, just me, Liana, and her. I sat on a bench at a respectful distance while the two of them walked slow loops under the trees. I watched Liana talk with big hand gestures, saw Dana nod, laugh, touch her arm. When they sat on a picnic table, Liana looked over at me. Just a glance. But it said everything. She wasn’t lost. She wasn’t alone. She was just growing. And I was still her home base, her steady place.
Later, after Dana left, Liana and I got ice cream even though it was cold out.
“She smells the same,” she said between bites. “Like jasmine and coffee.”
“You remember that?”
“Yeah. But she’s different too. Older. Quieter. I think I like her, but I don’t know if I trust her yet.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to know everything right away.”
She smiled. “Thanks for coming.”
“Always.”
Now when she talks to her mom, she does it from her room, but she always gives me a quick summary after. No secrets. No confusion. Just a kid trying to piece together two versions of love.
That night on the bathroom floor taught me something I didn’t know I needed to learn—sometimes the most important thing you can do for someone is just lie down beside them. Be where they are. No lectures. No shields. Just presence.
So if you’ve ever wondered how to stay connected to your kid, even as they start pulling away—maybe the answer is simple.
Just don’t move. Not when they need you close.
Would you lay down on the bathroom floor too?
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