She's a tough teenager. Smart, fierce, emotional as hell. Always has been, and Dad? He tries. God, he tries. Even when she acts like he's asking for a kidney just by wondering how school went. He lets her storm off. He doesn't shout. He sits with it, waits. Sometimes he'll knock on her door just to slide in a plate of fruit. No words. No pressure. Just a quiet "I'm here" in apple slices and orange wedges. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I'll find her in the living room, curled up next to him on the couch, pretending she's just "too tired to move," but really, she's come to lean into him again.
I'll never forget the day she told him she had a boyfriend.
We were in the kitchen. She said it so casually, like she was asking for a snack. "Oh, by the way,  I'm dating Theo now." Just like that. No buildup. No warning. She was biting into an apple, completely unaware that she'd just detonated a nuclear bomb in her father's chest.
I swear I saw the blood leave his face. His whole body went still, like someone had paused him mid-breath. He blinked. Then blinked again. "No," he said finally, voice flat, like he was stating a basic scientific fact.  He looked at me and said, "No. That can't be right. She still sticks glitter on the dog's tail. She can't date. She's seven."
"She's fourteen," I whispered. He didn't hear me or maybe he refused to. Alice rolled her eyes so hard they nearly launched out of her skull. "God, Dad. It's not that deep."
But to him? It was. It was deeper than oceans. It was watching the little girl who used to fall asleep on his chest now talk about boys, not cartoons or crayons or the fact that ketchup is a soup (her long-held and very passionate opinion). This was different. This was the beginning of her belonging to the world, to herself, and not just to us.
Mom had to talk him down. She pressed her hand to his chest like she  was trying to restart his heart through sheer proximity. "She's okay," she  said gently. "We raised her well. She's still Alice. She's just...growing." Only Mom could've reached him in that moment and even then, barely. He sat down at the kitchen table like he'd aged a decade in five minutes.
And then there's Lola. Eleven now. Still little enough to believe in magic. She leaves notes for the tooth fairy even when she doesn't lose teeth. Her bedroom is a kingdom of stuffed animals and glow-in-the-dark stars. That night, after the boyfriend bomb, dad held her tight for a long moment, like he needed something to anchor him. Then I heard him whisper, "Stay my baby a little longer, okay?"
She nodded seriously, like she knew what was at stake. Like she understood she was his last little island of innocence in a house that was changing fast. She kissed his cheek, wrapped her arms around his neck, and said, "I'll be your baby forever."
That's who he is now.
A man who knows that parenting isn't about always having the right words. Sometimes it's about staying, especially when they push you away. Sometimes it's about feeding animals, and teens, and marriage with the same slow patience, and he does. Every single day.
That's what's running through my head now, standing here with this ring.
Because this moment? Asking for their blessing? It doesn't happen without that year. Without all of us deciding we were worth fighting for.  I look at them, my mom with her tear-streaked cheeks, my dad with that lopsided smile he only wears when he's proud, and I realize I'm not scared. I'm ready.
I open the box.
The ring is simple and elegant. A smooth silver band cradling a deep green emerald that shimmers like new leaves after rain. On either side of the stone, so subtle you might miss it without looking closely, are carved cat ears—just the right touch of mischief and magic. Just like her.