#9: I’d Give Anything to Have 50% Again

I’m angry.

Not disappointed. Not frustrated. Not “working through some things.”

Angry.

I’m angry at time. At how quickly eighteen years disappeared. At the moments I missed and the moments I had but didn’t appreciate enough. And this morning, sitting beside this fire while the rest of the world is still quiet, I’m angry about something I’ve carried for a long time.

Avery was still little when divorce changed the math of fatherhood for me.

Fifty percent.

Half the mornings. Half the bedtimes. Half the dinners. Half the weekends. Holidays divided. Weeks divided. Summers divided. Her childhood suddenly had lines drawn through it on a calendar, and I learned to count the days until she came home.

I hated it.

I hated the empty nights. I hated missing moments. I hated saying goodbye when I wasn’t ready. Not because I needed someone to blame. Because I wanted more time with my kids. I wanted to be their dad every day.

But you adapt. You show up. You love hard. You make your half count. And when it’s time to say goodbye, you tell yourself, “She’ll be back.” There was always another Thursday. Another weekend. Another pickup. Another Tuesday.

For years, I looked at that calendar and saw what I didn’t have.

Half.

I never looked at the weeks with her name on them and thought, “Someday you’re going to beg God for one of these back.” I had no idea. Because the little girl whose name I used to look for on that calendar went to college last week. And it wrecked me.

I knew this day was coming. This is what we raise them for. Parenting is this beautiful, cruel process of spending eighteen years teaching someone you love more than yourself how to leave you. First across the living room. Then into kindergarten. Then behind the wheel of a car. Then across a graduation stage.

Eventually you stand in a college dorm room, hug your little girl, and somehow find the strength to let go.

A mentor of mine recently said, “Celebrate the launch. Don’t mourn the loss.” I believe him. But right now? Screw that. I’m mourning. Because Avery leaving didn’t just make me realize how quickly eighteen years disappeared. It made me realize how much of those eighteen years I didn’t get.

People talk about shared custody like it’s a schedule. Monday here. Tuesday there. Every other weekend. Thanksgiving this year. Christmas next year. Pick up at five. Drop off on Sunday.

But those boxes on the calendar aren’t dates. They’re somebody’s childhood. They’re bedtime stories. Breakfast burritos before school. Rides where neither of you say anything important. Late night conversations in the kitchen while sitting on the counter.

And for me, they’re Avery and me dancing in that kitchen.

The song, “dancing in the kitchen” by LANY…we’d turn it up and dance. Nothing impressive. Just a dad and his daughter being ridiculous together. Singing too loud. Dancing badly. Laughing.

I didn’t know those moments were becoming memories while we were making them. There was a last time we danced in that kitchen while she was still my little girl living at home, and neither of us knew it. We didn’t mark the occasion. I didn’t write down the date…because I honestly didn’t think there would be a last time.

The song ended. Life continued.

I want those days back. I want the random Tuesdays. The bedroom door shutting when she’s mad at me. Yelling upstairs that we’re late. The dishes on the counter. The shoes by the door. The noise. The interruptions. The attitude. I want to stand in that kitchen again. Music too loud. My daughter dancing with her dad. Fifty percent was never enough. I never understand what fifty percent was worth.

I do now.

You can replace almost anything. Money. A job. A house. But you cannot rebuild time. You cannot get back a Tuesday night with your seven-year-old daughter. There isn’t enough money in the world to buy another bedtime with your ten-year-old girl. No amount of success gives you another ride to school with your fourteen-year-old.

Those days are gone. Some of them I had. Some of them I didn’t. And now all of them are over.

For all those years when fifty percent felt so unfair, there was something hidden inside it I couldn’t see. There was always another week. If she wasn’t home, she would be soon. There was another pickup. Another weekend. Another summer. I could look at that stupid calendar I hated and find her name somewhere ahead of me.

Now she’s eighteen.

There isn’t another custody exchange. There isn’t another “my week.” God, give me half again. Give me every other week. Give me Thursday night. Give me a pickup time. Give me that stupid calendar.

I’d treasure every second of it.

And then there’s the part that hurts to admit. The time I did have that I didn’t always appreciate. The nights I was distracted. The car rides when my mind was somewhere else. The stories I half listened to because I thought something on my phone mattered. I wish I had known. I wish somebody had grabbed me when she was seven and said, “Pay attention. Turn the game off. The email can wait. Take the long way home. Stay at the table five more minutes. And when she asks you to dance in the kitchen, dance. Because someday the house is going to be quiet.”

Avery is exactly where she is supposed to be. She is strong and brave, and I am so proud of the young woman she has become. We raised her to go. I know that. But knowing it didn’t make leaving campus any easier. Eventually, there was nothing left to do. The bed was made. The clothes were put away. The pictures were hung. Everything had a place except me. I hugged my daughter and held on, probably a little too long. I knew I needed to let go. I knew she was ready. But I couldn’t make my arms open because when I did, she would walk back into that room and I would walk away.

So for a few seconds, I just held my little girl. Except she wasn’t little anymore, and that destroyed me. Standing there, I could somehow see every version of her at once. The little girl who called me Daddy. The teenager who rolled her eyes at me. The girl I worried about. The girl I prayed for. The girl dancing with me in the kitchen. I wanted five more minutes, and then I realized five minutes wouldn’t be enough. I wanted five more years. One more “Daddy.” One more tiny hand in mine. One more bedtime. One more ride. One more night when I could go to sleep knowing all my kids were under my roof.

But time doesn’t negotiate.

So I opened my arms. I let go. I walked out of the dorm, and I left without her. We left without her. For eighteen years, you count heads before you leave. Everybody here? Everybody have their stuff? Nobody gets left behind. Then one day, leaving one of them behind is the entire reason you came. I cried. I missed her before we were out of the parking lot.

And maybe that’s what all this anger has been trying to tell me. I wanted more. More mornings. More dinners. More car rides. More noise upstairs. More shoes by the door. More completely insignificant moments I didn’t know were significant yet. More of her. Maybe anger really is grief with nowhere else to go. Because I don’t want to rewrite our story. I don’t want to go backward and change everything. I just want some of the time back.

This morning I’m sitting beside this fire, proud beyond words of the young woman who walked into that dorm room and aching for the little girl I walked out without. For years, I thought I was angry because I only got half. Maybe I’m heartbroken because I loved the half I got so damn much, and I didn’t know it was running out. Fifty percent felt like so little for so long. This morning, it feels like everything.

I’d give almost anything to turn that song on one more time. To stand in the kitchen and dance with my little girl. And this time, I’d know. I’d know to pay attention. I’d know not to hurry through it. I’d know that someday I wouldn’t be wishing for another Christmas, another birthday or another graduation. I’d just want the kitchen. That song. Her.

One more ordinary Tuesday.

Because I finally understand what those ordinary Tuesdays were worth.

Right after I ran out of them.

Keep the fire burning. 🔥