Parenting doesn’t come with a manual. You learn as you go—through missed homework assignments, scraped knees, and nights when your child needs you more than ever. For me, one of those nights happened on a cold bathroom floor.
My daughter, Liana, is twelve now—bright, perceptive, and growing up faster than I can keep up with. Her mom left years ago, and I’ve done my best to fill both roles, even when I had no idea what I was doing. Then one night, I found Liana curled up on the tiles, sick and shivering. So I lay down beside her. No words, no solutions—just presence.
She whispered, “Thanks for staying,” and in that moment, I understood something profound: love isn’t always about grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s about showing up in the quiet, hard moments when no one’s watching.
Later, she told me her mom had reached out after years of silence. She was nervous to tell me, afraid I’d be upset. But all I felt was that old, familiar hurt—not for me, but for her. I told her it was okay to be confused, that I’d support her no matter what.
When Dana finally visited, I watched from a distance as they talked. Liana told me afterward that it felt different—not bad, just not the same. And that was okay. Some bonds take time to rebuild, if they ever do.
That night on the floor wasn’t about fixing anything. It was about being there, fully and completely, even when I couldn’t make it better. And that’s what love really is.
