I always believed I was a good dad. I am not the kind of dad who looks fantastic on Pinterest, with meals that match the theme and calendars that are color-coded. But I was there. I arrived. I paid attentive. I did my best. My daughter Liana was born twelve years ago on a night when there was a storm. That was the moment my life changed in a way I never thought I would need. That night, the sky split open with thunder, rain hammered on the windows of the hospital, and I held a sobbing, wrinkly baby in my arms. I immediately knew what it was like to love someone more than I loved myself.
Dana, her mom, and I weren’t perfect either. We had varied experiences as parents. I became different. I leaned in. But what about Dana? She leaned out slowly. Dana sat me down one morning with cold coffee in her hands and eyes that couldn’t meet mine when Liana turned six. “I have to find myself,” she said. I didn’t tell her to stay. I could 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, telling 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 meetings, small injuries, spelling tests, and sleepovers went by swiftly. Liana made everything worth it, even when it was hard. When I tried to act awkward, I got a hug, a giggle, or one of those wide-eyed looks that said I was doing okay. At twelve, she possesses the emotional intelligence of someone who is twenty-four. She watches individuals and listens to a lot of true crime podcasts, as if she’s collecting information and figuring them out before they say anything. I’m worried and amazed by how smart she’s getting.
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 up to her chest and her face pale and sweaty. I took one blanket and then another. I sat next to her and gently pushed her hair back. I asked her if she wanted to lie down in bed. She shook her head. “Too far,” she replied in a quiet voice.
I did what I thought was right. On the cold tile floor, I lay down next to her.
I didn’t even think about it. I didn’t care if the floor was chilly or if my back would suffer the next day. I just knew she needed me. Not as a repairman. I didn’t feel like I had to go to her room with her. Just there. Next to her. She was breathing shallowly at first and shaking. I tucked the blanket around her closely. We slept for hours without saying a word. The only sounds were the bathroom fan and the occasional rustle when she moved her weight.
Around 3 a.m., when everything felt quiet and fragile, she remarked gently, “Thanks for staying.”
I glanced at her and responded, “Always.” And I meant it with all my heart.
At that point, she gently and carefully told me that Dana had called. “She left a message… said she wanted to talk,” Liana murmured, staring at the bottom of the toilet as if it held the answers. “She just wants to talk to me,” she said.
I didn’t do anything. I didn’t feel shocked, angry, or hurt. There was a gentle ache in my chest. Not for me, but for her. She must have been torn between wanting to know more and being hurt, confused, and hopeful. I took a long breath and added, “You don’t have to choose right now.” Whatever you choose, I’ll be there for you. You will always be mine.
Two weeks later, Dana flew in.
We chose a park nearby as a neutral spot to meet. Liana picked the spot: a shady area 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 blurry, like a photograph that had been left outside. She wore the same jasmine-scented perfume she always wore and strolled around with a mix of caution and regret.
Liana came up slowly, but not in a way that was rude. I observed them hug, talk, and sit on the grass. It wasn’t dramatic; there were no tears or screaming. Two guys were trying to close a gap that time had made, and it felt too big. I asked her how she was doing after we got back in the car.
“She smells like coffee and jasmine,” she said as she peered out the window. “But… she’s not the same person I used to know.” And I still don’t know if I can trust her.
I said, “That’s okay.” “You don’t have to.” Not yet. Not fully. You have all the time you need.
Since then, Dana and Liana have talked a couple more times. We converse on the phone and sometimes through video chat. The door to her room is always open. There are no secrets. She lets me know when they talk. She tells what was said. I know I’ll never fully understand what’s going on in her head, but I also know she trusts me enough to let me in. That means a lot to me.
I’ll always remember what I learnt that night on the restroom floor.
As a parent, you don’t always have to know what to say. It’s not about fixing everything that’s broken. Sometimes, the best thing to do is just stay where you are. The most loving thing you can do is this. Being quiet is the kindest thing you can do. Even if you can only breathe together, lie down next to the ones you love. This is true even when it hurts. This is true even when you don’t know what the future holds.
So now I ask myself the same quiet question all the time: what do you do when your child, partner, or friend is sad, scared, or confused? Would you also lie down on the cold floor of the bathroom for them?
I hope you say yes. I know mine is. Every single time.
