I always thought I had a good handle on being a dad. Not a perfect one, but present, reliable. Liana was born during a stormy August night, and it feels like I’ve been running through thunderstorms ever since. Not bad ones—just the kind that remind you life’s rarely calm. Her mother, Dana, left when Liana was six. Said she needed to “find herself.” I didn’t chase her. Maybe I should’ve, but I was too busy learning how to braid hair and shop for school supplies that didn’t scream “my dad picked this out.”
Now Liana’s twelve. Still a kid, but also not. Her voice is changing—more certain, less sing-songy. She’s into true crime podcasts and always knows which of her classmates are lying about something. She’s good at reading people. She gets that from her mom.
That night, she couldn’t keep anything down. It started with her skipping dinner, which never happens. By bedtime, she was curled on the bathroom tile, shivering despite the blanket and holding that worn blue pillow she’s had since kindergarten. The one she named “Ocean” because of its color, even though now it’s more gray than blue.
I hovered in the hallway at first. I’d already brought her water and some crackers, set up the trash can beside her. I figured maybe she wanted space—she’s been asking for more of that lately, closing her door more often, keeping secrets I pretend not to notice. But when I leaned in and saw her trembling, eyes half-closed and skin pale like candle wax, something pulled me in.
