SHE WAS TOO SICK TO SLEEP ALONE, SO I LAID ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR WITH HER
My daughter, Liana, hadn’t kept anything down all day. Just water and crackers, and even that didn’t last long. By night, she was curled up on the bathroom floor with a trash can next to her and her face buried in that ridiculous blue pillow she always drags around when she’s sick.
I stood outside the bathroom for a bit, thinking maybe she just needed space. But when I peeked in and saw how pale she looked, her little legs trembling even under the blanket, I grabbed a pillow and laid down next to her. I didn’t even change out of my pajama pants. Just dropped right there on the hard floor and pulled part of the blanket over both of us.
She didn’t say much. Just turned her face toward me and mumbled something like, “Thanks for staying.”
I told her, “Always,” and wrapped my arm around her like I used to when she was little and afraid of thunder. She’s twelve now, but some things don’t change, not really.
The floor was cold, and I kept shifting, trying to keep the blood flowing in my arm. I could hear the clock ticking from the hallway, and somewhere in the silence, I realized how fast she’s growing up. How soon nights like this won’t happen anymore—where she’ll want me close even when she’s miserable.
Then, around 3 a.m., she whispered something else. It was soft, and I wasn’t sure I heard her right.
“Dad… did you know Mom called?”
I froze. My ex. We hadn’t spoken in months. Liana hadn’t mentioned anything.
Before I could say anything, she added, “She said she wants to talk. But only to me.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded slowly. “Okay,” I whispered.
Then she looked at me—really looked at me—and said, “I’m not mad she left. I just… I want to know why.”
And all I could do was pull her a little closer, rest my forehead against hers, and say, “When you’re ready, I’ll be right here.”
Not to answer for her mom. Not to fix it.
Just to be the floor she could lie on when the world felt too heavy.
