SHE WAS TOO SICK TO SLEEP ALONE, SO I LAID ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR WITH HER.

I always believed I was a decent dad. Not perfect, but present and reliable. Since Liana was born on a stormy August night, I’ve felt like I’ve been running through downpours—not dangerous storms, just the kind that remind you life is rarely calm. Mom, Dana, left when Liana was six. Said she needed to “find herself.” I didn’t chase after her. Maybe I should have, but I was too busy braiding hair and buying school supplies without her saying, “My dad picked this.”

Liana is twelve now. Still a kid, but not really. Her voice is more sure, less sing-songy. She listens to true crime podcasts and knows which classmates are lying. She reads people well. Got that from her mom.

That night, nothing would stay down. She skipped dinner—unheard of. By nightfall, she was curled up on the bathroom floor, trembling despite the blanket, hugging her kindergarten-blue pillow. The one she named “Ocean” for its color, though now it’s more gray than blue.

At first, I hovered in the hallway. I brought her water and crackers, set the trash can nearby. Maybe she needed space—she’s been asking for more lately, locking her door, keeping secrets I pretend not to notice. But when I saw her shaking, eyes half-closed, skin pale as candle wax, something pulled me in.

Instead of changing out of my pajamas, I grabbed a couch cushion and lay down beside her. No hesitation. I pulled part of the blanket over us and laid my arm across her shoulder.

She didn’t say much. Just turned to me and whispered, “Thanks for staying.”

And I meant “Always,” with every cell in my body.

Time slowed. The hard floor dug into my hip and shoulder, but I didn’t care. I could hear the hallway clock ticking in the silence. Time was passing fast even though the moment felt still. She’s growing up too quickly, I thought. There won’t be many more nights like this. One day, she’ll push me away for good. She’ll be out with friends or locked in her room with music, messages, and secrets. And I’ll be back outside.

Around 3 a.m., just when I thought she’d fallen asleep, she mumbled something weak:

“Dad… I have to tell you. Mom called.”

I blinked.

She hadn’t mentioned Dana in months. The last card we got was generic, no return address, a barely legible signature at Christmas.

Before I could respond, Liana added, “She said she wants to talk. Only to me.”

Something stiff and cold settled in my chest. Not jealousy. Not anger. Just that old pain I had almost forgotten.

“What did she say?” I asked gently, trying to keep my voice even.

“She asked how I was. Said she’s been thinking about me. She wants to call again. But she said not to tell you. Said it would complicate things.”

I swallowed. Dana always complicated things, whether she meant to or not. But this wasn’t about her. It was about Liana. I didn’t want her to carry secrets just to keep the peace.

“You can talk to her,” I said. “I won’t stop you.”

Liana’s eyes glinted in the dark as she turned to face me. “You’re not mad?”

“Of course not, sweetheart. She’s still your mom.”

“But she left.”

“Yes,” I sighed. “She did. But you can still care about her. You can talk to her. That’s okay. Really.”

She went quiet, and I thought she’d fallen asleep. I was about to close my eyes when she spoke again.

“She said she might visit.”

My body tensed involuntarily. We hadn’t crossed that line before. Since she moved to Arizona with a used motorcycle dealer, Dana hadn’t seen Liana in over two years.

“Did she say when?”

“Maybe next month,” she said. “She asked if she could.”

“Do you want to?”

Liana paused. “I don’t know. I miss her. But I’ve forgotten what she’s like now. I don’t really know her, but I remember how she used to talk and sing in the car. What if I see her and feel weird?”

I exhaled slowly. “That’s okay. If it feels weird, just come back to me. No judgment.”

She turned and moved closer. “Would you come with me? If I asked to see her?”

A knot formed in my throat. “Yeah. I’d come.”

She didn’t reply, but she rested her forehead on my shoulder. That was enough.

Two weeks later, Dana flew in. Liana and I met her at a park. While they walked slowly under the trees, I sat on a bench respectfully distant. Dana nodded, laughed, and touched Liana’s arm as she spoke with big hand gestures. From the picnic table, Liana looked over at me. Just a look. It said everything. She was safe. She had someone. She was growing. I was still her anchor.

After Dana left, Liana and I had ice cream despite the chill.

“She smells the same,” she said between bites. “Like jasmine and coffee.”

“You remembered that?”

“Yeah. But she’s different too. Older. Quieter. I like her, but I’m not sure I trust her.”

“That’s okay,” I replied. “You don’t have to know everything right away.”

She smiled. “Thanks for coming.”

“Always.”

Now she calls her mom from her room, but she always gives me a short recap. No secrets. No mess. A girl trying to piece together two love stories.

That night on the bathroom floor, I learned something important: sometimes, the best thing you can do for someone is lie down next to them. Stay. No lectures. No armor. Just be there.

Maybe the answer to staying close to your child when they start to pull away… is simple:

Don’t move. Not when they still need you near.

Would you lie on the bathroom floor?