I always believed I was a good dad. I don’t look like the kind of dad you see on Pinterest, with flawlessly planned lunches and color-coded calendars. But I was there. I came. I was paying attention. I gave it my all. My daughter Liana was born twelve years ago on a night when the weather was bad. That was the moment my life changed in a way I had never thought I would need. That night, thunder split the sky, rain beat on the hospital windows, and I held a sobbing, wrinkled infant in my arms. I now understood what it meant to love someone more than yourself.
Neither Dana, her mom, nor I were perfect. We were parents in a different way. I changed. I leaned in. But what about Dana? She leaned out slowly. When Liana turned six, Dana sat me down one morning with cold coffee in her hands and eyes that wouldn’t meet mine. “I need to find myself,” she said. I didn’t ask her to stay. I might have. But at that moment, I was too busy figuring out how to braid a six-year-old’s hair without making it look like a bird’s nest, figuring out the difference between tights and leggings, and making sure her backpack had the right folders—those that didn’t make it obvious that her father picked them out at the last minute.
Parent-teacher conferences, spelling tests, minor injuries, and sleepovers all went by swiftly. Even when things were hard, Liana made everything worth it. When I tried to act awkward, I always got a hug, a giggle, or one of those wide-eyed looks that said I was doing okay. She has the emotional intelligence of someone twice her age now that she’s twelve. She listens to a lot of true crime podcasts and watches people like she’s gathering information about them and figuring them out before they say anything. I’m worried and surprised at how smart she’s developing.
The next night came.
She didn’t eat dinner at first. She said, “Not hungry,” without looking up from her book. I didn’t push it. A few hours later, I found her on the bathroom floor with her knees pulled to her chest and her face pale and sweaty. I grabbed one blanket, then another. I sat next to her and gently pushed her hair back. I asked her if she wanted to go to bed. She shook her head. “Too far,” she remarked in a quiet voice.
I did what I thought was best. I lay down next to her on the cold tile floor.
I didn’t even think about it for a second. I didn’t care if the floor was chilly or that my back would suffer the next day. I just knew she needed me. Not as a handyman. I didn’t feel like I had to go with her to her room. Just there. Beside her. At first, she was breathing shallowly and shaking. I wrapped the blanket tightly around her. For hours, we slept in solitude, with just the sound of the bathroom fan and the rustling of her weight when she moved.
She added gently, “Thanks for staying,” about 3 a.m., when the world felt silent and weak.
I turned to her and said, “Always.” And I really meant it.
In a soft and gentle voice, she told me that Dana had called. “She left a message and said she wanted to talk,” Liana remarked as she stared at the bottom of the toilet, as if it could give her the answers. “She just wants to talk to me, though.”
I didn’t do anything. I didn’t feel shocked, angry, or hurt. My chest hurt a little bit. Not for me, but for her. She must have been torn between wanting to know more and being confused, hurt, and hopeful. I took a long breath and added, “You don’t have to decide anything right now.” I’ve got your back no matter what you choose. I shall always have you.
Two weeks later, Dana flew in.
We chose to meet at a park nearby that is not biased. Liana picked the area: a shaded spot next to the pond where she used to feed ducks when she was a kid. I sat on a nearby seat and appeared to be really into my coffee while I watched them from a distance. Dana looked like someone I knew, but she was faded, like a picture that had been left out in the sun. She wore the same jasmine-scented perfume she always did and strolled around with a mix of caution and sorrow.
Liana came up slowly, but not in a mean way. I observed them hug, talk, and sit on the grass. It wasn’t dramatic; there were no tears or screaming. It seemed like the space was too big for two guys to cross. I asked her how she was doing after we got back in the car.
She said, “She smells like coffee and jasmine,” as she peered out the window. “But… she’s not the same person I remember.” I still don’t sure if I can trust her.
I said, “That’s okay.” “You don’t have to.” Not yet. Not all the way. Take your time.
Since then, Dana and Liana have talked a couple more times. We converse on the phone and sometimes on video chat. Her room’s door is always open. There aren’t any hidden things. She tells me when they talk. She says what was said. I know I’ll never fully understand what’s going on in her head, but I also know that she trusts me enough to let me in. That means a lot to me.
That night on the bathroom floor, I learnt something that will stay with me forever.
When you’re a parent, it’s not always about knowing what to say. It’s not about fixing everything that’s broken. Sometimes, the best thing to do is to stay. It’s the best thing you can do for them. The best thing you can do is be quiet. Even if all you can do is breathe together, lie down next to the people you love. This is still true even if it hurts. This is true even when you don’t know what will happen in the future.
So now I often ask myself the same question in my head: when your child, partner, or friend is angry, scared, or confused… Would you also lie down on the cold bathroom floor for them?
I hope you agree. I know mine is. Every time.