Single parenting is a mix of triumphs and tiny heartbreaks. You learn to braid hair, decode middle school drama, and pretend you know the lyrics to songs you’ve never heard. But nothing prepares you for the night your child gets sick—and the emotional storm that follows.
My daughter, Liana, is twelve. Her mom left when she was six, and I’ve been figuring it out ever since. Then came the night I found her on the bathroom floor, feverish and shaking. So I lay down beside her, the tiles digging into my side. She whispered, “Thanks for staying,” and I realized: this is what parenting is. Not the big moments, but the small, silent ones where you’re just there.
Later, she told me her mom had called—wanted to see her but hadn’t mentioned me. I saw the worry in her eyes, waiting for my reaction. But all I said was, “Whatever you need, I’m here.”
When Dana visited, I kept my distance, letting them have their moment. Afterward, Liana said it was nice but strange—like seeing someone she used to know. And that was okay. Rebuilding trust takes time, and my job wasn’t to interfere but to be steady.
That night on the floor taught me that sometimes, the best thing you can do is nothing at all—just be there, quietly, so they know they’re not alone.
