Chapter 1.

1.

I’d set my alarm for 5 a.m. Thursday morning, then woke in the dark at three-thirty. Ever since Maggie and I had our big blowup, I’ve had trouble sleeping—and anytime I’m lying awake at night, my thoughts turn to worries, and I start cataloging all the ways I’ve failed my daughter. Sometimes I wonder if other parents do this, too. Have you ever spent the night tossing and turning and reliving all your worst parenting screwups? Because I’ve got a couple hundred of them.

Like the time we drove to Busch Gardens for Maggie’s seventh birthday and she left Mr. Panda Pal in a highway rest stop. We were two hours down the interstate before she realized he was missing, so turning around would have added an extra four hours to our trip. My wife and daughter pleaded with me to go back anyway and we all ended up in a shouting match. I wasn’t going to ruin our whole day over a six-dollar stuffed animal. I promised Maggie that I would buy her a new panda—a bigger panda!—when we arrived at Busch Gardens. I thought she’d forget about the stuffed animal as soon as she saw the enormous roller coasters. Instead she spent the whole weekend sick with worry, convinced that poor Mr. Panda Pal had been discarded in a trash can, that he was suffocating under greasy napkins and ketchup-smeared hamburger wrappers. My daughter barely spoke to me for the rest of the weekend, and the whole trip was a bust. I don’t think she ever forgave me for the episode, and I certainly never forgave myself.

But for every awful story like Mr. Panda Pal, I could tell you a dozen stories where I did something right. I helped Maggie paint her bedroom five times, because she was always discovering fresh colors and bold new looks. I taught her how to tape up the windows and use a roller and keep the paint from dripping on the trim. I showed her the basics of self-defense; I taught her how to make a fist and throw a punch, and I made sure she understood the devastating power of kicking a man in his coin purse. And since I drove for a living, you better believe that I coached Maggie on getting her license. She aced her test on her first try, and the lady at the DMV joked that Maggie was ready to work for UPS.

I tried focusing on these happier memories, thinking they would soothe me back to sleep. Believe it or not, there was a time when Maggie actually confided in me, when she felt comfortable sharing her hopes and dreams and even her secrets. I’ll give you a perfect example. There was a time back in ninth grade when Maggie’s mood seemed to plummet. She sulked all through dinner, and after we cleaned up, she just went to her bedroom, closed the door, and blasted Lana Del Rey songs about death and dying and heartbreak. I asked if anything was bothering her and she refused to fess up. So the next morning I brought her to Waffle House to coax some answers out of her.

Breakfast at Waffle House was a little tradition we had together. My wife, Colleen, used to work there and all the older waitresses still remembered her, so I always got the VIP treatment and everyone doted on Maggie. They’d bring her free refills and extra crayons and just about anything else she could wish for.

That morning we ordered our usuals—hot coffee and the farmer’s omelet for me, and strawberry pancakes with whipped cream for Maggie. Neither of us said very much until our food arrived, and then I gently started grilling her.

“How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“Classes okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone giving you trouble?”

“Nope.”

“’Cause you seem a little off.”

Shrug.

“Are you sure no one’s bothering you?”

“You are,” she said. “Can you please stop hounding me?”

Well, I certainly didn’t see that coming. I raised both hands in a show of surrender and stopped interrogating her—but my abrupt silence seemed to make her feel worse.

“Dad, everything’s fine. You can relax.” She leaned across the table and whispered, “It’s just my period.”

Until that moment, I didn’t know she had a period.

“Since when?”

“I don’t know. Christmas?”

I couldn’t believe it. Christmas had been nearly four months ago. And I’d spent the last two years preparing for this occasion. I even bought her a picture book that showed why all this stuff was coming out of her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She gestured for me to keep my voice down. “I didn’t want to make a big deal.”

“But it is a big deal! Did you tell Aunt Tammy?”

“Just my friends.”

“What about the equipment? How did you get it?”

“I went to CVS like a normal person. All my friends already have theirs, so I knew what to do.”

This was such a classic Maggie moment. Over the years, I’d watched her grow more and more independent and now here she was, tackling this huge milestone with no help from me or my sister. I was surprised but also very, very proud.

“You should let me pay for the equipment,” I told her. “Don’t buy it with your allowance. Just tell me what it costs.”

“Fine, but you have to stop calling it ‘the equipment.’ They’re pads.”

“I’ll take you to Walmart,” I promised. “We’ll get you the biggest box of pads in the store.”

After we’d finished eating, I waved to the waitress and called for the check. Maggie watched me calculate the tip and count out my money. Now that she was getting older, she was more keenly aware of the prices of things, and maybe buying her own pads had something to do with that.

“Isn’t twenty-five percent too much?”

“Yeah, but your mother always did it. She said these waitresses deserved it. I used to complain she was throwing our money away.”

“So why are you doing it now?”

I shrugged. “In case she’s watching us. I think it would make her happy.” I pointed the pen at her. “And you with your big news, you would definitely make her happy. She’d be so proud of you, Maggie.”