She Was Too Sick To Sleep Alone, So I Stayed On The Bathroom Floor With Her
I always figured I did okay as a dad. Not perfect, but dependable, someone who showed up. Liana was born on a stormy August night, and it feels like I’ve been running through rainclouds ever since. Not the dangerous kind—just the kind that remind you that life is never truly smooth. Her mom, Dana, left when Liana was six. Said she needed to “figure herself out.” I never chased her. Maybe I should have, but I was too busy learning how to braid hair and choose school clothes that didn’t scream “a dad picked this.”
Liana’s twelve now. Not quite a kid anymore, but not fully grown either. Her voice is shifting—less playful, more serious. She’s into true crime podcasts and can spot when someone at school is spinning a lie. That insight? She gets that from her mom.
That night, she couldn’t hold anything down. It started when she barely touched dinner—which never happens. By bedtime, she was huddled up on the bathroom floor, trembling under a blanket and clutching the worn blue pillow she’s had since kindergarten. She named it “Ocean” because of its color, though these days it looks more gray than blue.
I paused outside the door at first. I’d already brought her water and some crackers, set up a trash can nearby. Maybe she needed some room to breathe. She’s been asking for more space these days—closing her door, keeping things to herself that I do my best to respect. But when I peeked in and saw her shivering, face pale and damp with exhaustion, I couldn’t just stand there.
So I grabbed a pillow from the couch, stayed in my sweatpants, and eased myself onto the floor next to her without a word. I pulled part of the blanket over both of us and draped my arm across her shoulders.
She didn’t say much. Just tilted her face toward me and whispered, “Thanks for staying.”
“Always,” I told her, meaning it.
The bathroom clock kept ticking. My hip ached against the tiles, and my arm went numb under her head, but none of that mattered. Time felt slow and fast all at once. I kept thinking, She’s growing up so quickly. Nights like this don’t last forever. One day, she won’t need me like this anymore. One day, I’ll just be someone on the outside of her world.
Sometime after 3 a.m., when I thought she’d finally fallen asleep, I heard her voice, soft and fragile.
“Dad… did you know Mom called?”
I froze. Dana. She hadn’t reached out in months.
Liana hadn’t brought her up since Christmas, when we got a generic card with no return address and a nearly illegible signature.
Before I could say anything, Liana whispered, “She said she wants to talk. But only to me.”
That sent a strange chill through my chest—not jealousy, not quite anger. Just an ache I thought I’d left behind.
“What did she say?” I asked carefully, keeping my voice steady.
“Just that she’s been thinking about me. Asked if I’m okay. And said she wants to call again. But she told me not to tell you. That it’d make things complicated.”
I swallowed. Dana always had a way of making things tangled. But this wasn’t about her. It was about Liana. And I never wanted my kid to feel like she had to hide.
“You can talk to her,” I said gently. “I won’t stand in the way.”
Liana’s eyes glimmered. “You’re not mad?”
I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Of course not. She’s your mom. You don’t have to hide that, ever.”
She was quiet a moment before whispering, “But she left us.”
“She did,” I agreed, voice low. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t want to talk to her. That’s okay.”
More silence. I thought she was asleep until her voice broke the dark again.
“She said she might come see me.”
That made my body tense without meaning to. Dana hadn’t seen her in nearly two years, not since moving to Arizona with some guy who repaired motorcycles.
“Did she say when?” I asked.
“Maybe next month. She asked if I’d like that.”
“And do you?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. I miss her. But I don’t really remember who she is anymore. What if it’s weird?”
I took a breath. “Then it’s weird. That’s fine too. And if you ever need me, I’ll be right there.”
A small sniffle. Then: “Would you come with me if I go?”
That broke me in the quietest way. “Of course I would.”
She didn’t reply, just tucked herself closer to me, her forehead pressed against my shoulder. And that was all we needed to say.
Two weeks later, Dana showed up. We met at a park. Liana and her mom walked side by side under the trees while I kept my distance on a bench, watching them talk. I could see Liana gesturing with her hands, Dana leaning in to listen. When they paused at a picnic table, Liana glanced my way, and even across the grass, I knew what she was telling me without words: I’m okay.
And that was enough.
After Dana left, Liana and I grabbed ice cream, the chill of the cone seeping into my palm.
“She smells like coffee,” Liana told me, mouth rimmed with chocolate.
“You remember that?”
“Yeah.” A small shrug. “She’s different though. Older. Quieter. I liked seeing her. But it felt strange too. Like meeting someone I don’t really know anymore.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now.”
She smiled at me then. “Thanks for being there.”
“Always,” I replied.
These days, when Dana calls, Liana takes it in her room. But she always fills me in after—no secrets, no confusion. Just my kid, learning how to hold both love and loss at the same time.
And that long, sleepless night on the bathroom floor stays with me, a reminder that sometimes the most important thing you can do is simply lie down and wait with them. No lectures. No answers. Just being present.
If you ever wonder what really keeps a connection alive with your kid as they grow up—it’s this: Don’t move when they need you close. Sit with them in their silence. Let them lean on you.
And when they’re ready to talk, you’ll already be there.