What She Showed Me, Just by Being Her
We were supposed to move furniture today.
The plan was to go over to my daughter Sydnee’s old place, talk with her roommate, and haul over the big stuff to her new home—my house. But plans shifted. Instead of a day filled with boxes and conversation, we shared something quieter: time, rest, and a few unexpected moments of connection.
I was up early, made myself a simple breakfast, and settled in to finish an investment deck. Sydnee was still sleeping, but mid-morning I got a text from upstairs: “Is there coffee?” That made me smile. I quickly brewed a fresh pot, coffee being the non-negotiable peace offering before she’s ready to come downstairs.
She joined me briefly, made a little breakfast of her own, and then headed back up to rest some more. A few hours later, she let me know that she had talked with her roommate, and they were going to reschedule the conversation and furniture move for next weekend. I told her that was totally fine, I had other work to do anyway.
So, the day took on a calm rhythm. She curled up with the dogs and cats; I worked at my desk. Around 5:00 p.m., I wrapped up the deck and made my way to the kitchen to start dinner.
I tried to protect her. I became the reliable parent, the one who got her to school, made sure she had dinner, helped create a sense of rhythm when everything else was falling apart. She didn’t need more love than her brother. She just needed it in a different way. Gentler. Closer.
I began with bruschetta—fresh tomato, garlic, balsamic on toasted bread. I sent Sydnee a photo and texted her: “Come down if you want some.” I didn’t know if she’d be interested, but minutes later I heard movement upstairs. She and the puppies wandered down, clearly intrigued by the smell.
Turns out, the bruschetta was a hit.
While she nibbled, I got started on the main course: sweet peppers, sausage, shrimp, and rice. Sydnee gave me a sideways look, half skeptical, half curious. “Trust me,” I told her. “It’ll be good.” And while she was still enjoying the bruschetta, she let slip that the coconut curry chicken I’d made earlier in the week was amazing. I knew it, after all, she hoarded the leftovers!
She went back upstairs while I finished cooking. When dinner was ready, I called her down again. The dish came out even better than I expected, with a little feta cheese and parsley on top. Sydnee liked it too, though she admitted she was already full from the bruschetta.
As we sat and talked, she revealed something small, but meaningful. These have been the first consistent, home-cooked meals she’s had in a while. At her last place, her roommate made it hard for her to even store food in the fridge. She had to eat out constantly. expensive, stressful, and isolating. Here, she can eat, rest, keep groceries in the fridge. Here, she can breathe.
As we sat at the table, I noticed something else. The emerald necklace I gave her for her birthday—her birthstone. She was upset that I was leaving, had a new wife, and a baby on the way. She felt like I was abandoning her. I’ve been working to calm her anxiety ever since, the necklace was my genuine effort to say, you will always be my daughter, my little girl. She’s been wearing it a lot lately. I saw it again tonight, just a small glimmer at her collarbone. She never says anything about it. But I notice. And every time I do, I smile.
Kids have a way of asking you, without words, to become more than you already are.
Moments like this stir up older memories, ones I carry quietly.
Years ago, 2004 or 2005, it was my birthday. A day that should’ve been simple, maybe even joyful. But Kellie was having a mental health crisis. I had to take her to the hospital, the first of several visits like this, unsure of what the next hours or days would hold. When I got home, I felt numb. My mom came over, but I was barely functioning, just sitting on the couch, emotionally exhausted.
And then there was Sydnee.
She was young, far too young to have to carry anyone else’s weight. But she saw me hurting. And she tried to comfort me. She tried to care for me as I struggled to process everything that was happening. I’ll never forget it. She shouldn’t have had to be strong for me. But she was. And she’s been my heartstring ever since, my sweet Sydnee Sue.
Over the years, Sydnee and I have leaned on each other more than most, as the “normal ones” in our family, as we both coped with the dysfunction of our family. I love both of my kids the same, but that doesn’t mean I’ve treated them the same. Drew needed strength from me, he needed leadership, direction, a father who could help him navigate big external challenges he was facing. Sydnee needed something different.
She’s always been the more sensitive one. Where Drew might fight or flee, Sydnee would freeze. If you pushed her too hard, she’d shut down. You couldn’t demand trust from her; you had to earn it. Loving her first was the only way in. And honestly, I don’t know how well I did with that. Her version of the story might be very different than mine. But I know this: through the chaos of her mom’s illness, and the turbulence of her brother’s teenage years, it was Sydnee who quietly carried more than anyone realized.
I tried to protect her. I became the reliable parent, the one who got her to school, made sure she had dinner, helped create a sense of rhythm when everything else was falling apart. She didn’t need more love than her brother. She just needed it in a different way. Gentler. Closer.
Kids have a way of asking you, without words, to become more than you already are. It’s not exactly force… but it is a calling. The challenge is whether you’ll recognize what they actually need, not just what you want to give them.
Tonight, Sydnee went out with friends. It’s past midnight as I write this. I keep glancing at the door. I’m debating whether to text her. Not because I don’t trust her, but because I’m Dad. And being Dad doesn’t stop when they grow up. If anything, it changes shape, becomes quieter… but deeper.
In a few weeks, I’ll be moving to the other side of the world. Sydnee will be here. I know we’ll stay close. I know we’ll call and text and keep our thread alive. But part of me will always want to make sure she’s okay, that she’s safe, that she has coffee in the morning and a warm meal at night.
She’s still my daughter. My Sweet Sydnee Sue
Always has been.
Echo From The West 