I always thought I was a good dad—not perfect, but present. Liana, my twelve-year-old, was born on a stormy night, and I’ve felt like I’ve been running through thunderstorms ever since. Her mom, Dana, left when Liana was six, claiming she needed to “find herself.” I didn’t chase her; I was too busy learning to braid hair and buying school supplies that didn’t scream “dad picked this out.” Now Liana’s growing up fast. She’s into true crime podcasts and can read people like a pro. That night,
she got sick—skipping dinner and shivering on the bathroom floor despite a blanket. I stayed by her side, laying down next to her without hesitation. She whispered, “Thanks for staying,” and I replied, “Always,” meaning it with everything I had. Around 3 a.m., she told me her mom had called, asking to talk but only to her. I wasn’t angry—just a little ache in my chest. Dana had been out of the picture for months,