I’ve always considered myself a solid dad. Not perfect, but present. Reliable. Liana was born during a thunderstorm in August, and honestly, it’s felt like I’ve been moving through a storm ever since—not a violent one, just the kind that keeps you on your toes. Her mom, Dana, left when Liana was six. Said she needed to “find herself.” I didn’t fight it. Maybe I should’ve. But I was too busy learning how to braid hair and figure out which school supplies didn’t scream, “My dad bought this.”
Liana’s twelve now. That in-between age—still a kid, but drifting toward something older. Her voice is changing, more sure of itself. She’s into true crime podcasts, and she’s surprisingly good at reading people. She definitely got that from her mom.
That night, she was miserable. Hadn’t kept anything down since lunch. By evening, she was curled up on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a blanket with that faded blue pillow she calls “Ocean”—named for its original color, though now it’s more of a tired gray.
I lingered outside the bathroom for a bit. I’d already brought water and crackers, set up a trash can beside her. I figured she wanted space—she’s been asking for that a lot lately. But when I peeked in and saw her shivering, her cheeks pale, I couldn’t leave her like that.
So I grabbed a couch pillow and laid down next to her. Didn’t change. Didn’t hesitate. Just slid onto the cold floor and tucked part of the blanket over us both.
She turned toward me, voice soft. “Thanks for staying.”
“Always,” I said, and meant it.
The floor was unforgiving, and my shoulder started to ache, but I didn’t care. I could hear the hallway clock ticking. I thought about how fast she was growing. How these moments—her needing me this way—were becoming rare. Soon, she’d be out with friends or behind closed doors with headphones and secrets. I’d be on the edges of her world, hoping for little invitations back in.
Then, around 3 a.m., just as I thought she’d drifted off, she whispered, “Dad… Mom called.”
I stilled.
Dana hadn’t come up in months—not since Christmas, when she sent a vague card with no return address.
“She said she wants to talk,” Liana said. “But only to me.”
There was a cold knot in my chest. Not anger. Not jealousy. Just that old ache resurfacing.
“What did she say?” I asked, careful to keep my voice steady.
“She asked how I was. Said she misses me. That she wants to call again. But she told me not to tell you—it’d make things harder.”
That was Dana, always complicating things. But this wasn’t about her. This was about Liana.
“You can talk to her,” I said. “I won’t stop you.”
Liana turned her head slightly. “You’re not mad?”
“No,” I said gently. “She’s still your mom.”
“But she left.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “She did. But that doesn’t mean you have to shut her out. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel.”
There was a long silence, then: “She said she might visit.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“When?”
“Maybe next month. She asked if I wanted to.”
“And… do you?”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I miss her. But I don’t really remember her anymore. I remember how she used to sing in the car. But not much else. What if it’s weird?”
“Then it’s weird,” I said. “And we’ll figure it out. Together.”
She rolled toward me, head pressing into my shoulder. “Would you come with me? If I said yes?”
My throat tightened. “Yeah. I’d come.”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.
Two weeks later, Dana flew in. We met at a public park—neutral ground. I kept my distance while Liana and her mom walked slow laps under the trees. I watched her speak with animated hands. Saw Dana laugh, gently touch her arm. Liana glanced at me once. Just a glance. But it told me everything: she was still mine, still grounded, even as she stretched toward something unfamiliar.
Later that evening, we got ice cream—because that’s what we do, no matter the weather.
“She smells the same,” Liana said, between bites. “Like jasmine and coffee.”
“You remembered that?”
“I think so. She’s older now. 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 figure it all out today.”
She smiled. “Thanks for coming.”
“Always,” I said again.
Now when she talks to her mom, she does it from her room. But she always gives me the recap. Just enough to let me know I’m still in the loop. Still her safe place.
That night on the bathroom floor? It reminded me that parenting isn’t about big speeches or perfect decisions. Sometimes it’s just about showing up. Being right there on the cold tile, quietly holding space while your kid figures out their way.
So if you’re wondering how to stay close to your kid as they grow, maybe the answer isn’t complicated.
Just don’t leave when they need you. Even if the floor is hard. Even if it hurts a little.
Just stay.
And if this story moved you—share it. Someone out there might need the reminder that presence matters more than perfection. ❤️