Today's prompt · —
your drop
I'm scared I'll never be enough, but I keep going because of you.
dropped at 8:48 PM · 68 chars
That I'm proud of her for things she doesn't even know I noticed.
I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm terrified she'll figure that out.
Sometimes I just sit outside her bedroom door and listen to her breathe.
I stole her drawing from the fridge and hid it in my desk at work. Been there four years.
I already miss her and she's right here.
She's braver than me. Has been since she was three. I don't know where she got it.
I hope she never figures out that the tooth fairy was always broke and always late.
Some days she's the only reason I answer my phone.
I grew up not knowing what safe felt like. She has never once had to question it. That's the whole thing.
I let her win at chess for three years. Last month she beat me clean. I didn't tell her I noticed.
I've made peace with a lot of things. Her first heartbreak is not one of them.
She asked me once if I ever got scared. I said "sometimes." It's always.
The way she laughs at her own jokes before she finishes telling them. I will never get tired of that.
I screamed into a pillow for ten minutes after I put her to bed. Then I went back in to check she was still breathing.
She said "you smell like dad" to a stranger on the bus. The stranger cried. So did I when she told me.
I stopped drinking the day I heard her tell her friend I was "the best dad." I haven't touched it in three years.
She asked why clouds don't fall. I made up an answer. She believed it. I looked it up that night.
My daughter is funnier than me. I've known this since she was six. I'm fully okay with it.
She looked me in the eye at the airport and said "you'll be fine." She was eight. I wasn't fine. But I tried.
The version of me she knows is the best version I've ever managed to be.
I kept every letter she's ever written me. Even the angry ones. Especially the angry ones.
She calls me by my first name when she's being serious with me. I love it. I've never told her.
I gave up a job in another city because I couldn't bear three fewer bedtimes a week. She doesn't know.
She has my mother's hands exactly. My mother died the year she was born. I can't look at them too long.
When she's sick, I put my hand on her forehead and pretend I can feel the fever leaving through my palm. I think it works.
I am softer because of her. I'm not sure the rest of the world benefits but she does.
She said "I love you even when you're wrong" at dinner and I had to leave the table.
I still have the voicemail from her first phone call to me. I've never told anyone it exists.
She got my stubbornness. I used to apologize for it. I stopped.
The smell of crayons undoes me. That's all. That's the whole confession.
She's seventeen now and still holds my hand when we cross the street. I think she does it for me.
I've cried harder at her recitals than at any funeral I've attended. I'm not sure what that says about me.
She asked if I was happy once. I said yes. We both knew I was lying. She let me have it anyway.
I read her diary once. I put it back and never mentioned it. What I read made me cry for entirely different reasons.
My least favorite version of myself only shows up when I'm exhausted and she needs something. She deserves better than that.
I let her believe I know what I'm doing. Some days that performance is the only thing holding me upright.
She sings off-key with total confidence. I hope no one ever takes that from her.
She forgives me faster than I forgive myself. I've started trying to match her pace.
I'm building something I hope she inherits. I've never said that out loud until now.
She asked why I work so much. I told her it was for the family. That's true. It's also not the whole truth.
She asked me what I dreamed about when I was her age. I couldn't remember. That scared me more than anything.
She has opinions about everything and apologizes for none of them. I envy her constantly.
I didn't know what unconditional meant until she was born. Now it's the only thing I'm certain of.
She got my anxiety. I spend a lot of time hoping she got less of it than me.
Three times she has said something that sounded exactly like my mother. I have not recovered from any of them.
I watch her sleep sometimes and think: I made that. I have no idea how.
The day she stopped needing the night-light was the proudest and saddest I have ever felt simultaneously.
She asked me once if I was lonely. I said no. She said "okay but you can tell me." I cried in the car.
I talk to her about my day even when she's asleep. Old habit. Can't stop it.
She will never know what the house felt like before her. Good. It was quieter and emptier and smaller.
your answer · only you can see this
I'm scared I'll never be enough, but I keep going because of you.
dropped at 8:48 PM · 68 chars · day 23