daughter married

A dad’s touching retrospective: By any other name, she’s still my little girl

The door to the preschool classroom swung open and the kids stampeded out, my 3-year-old daughter Maggie leading the way under the warm spring California sun. She spotted me — a dad trying to be cool, surrounded by a group of moms — and skittered across the playground, stood with her feet on mine and hugged my knees, then tilted her head back, looked straight up at me and bellowed these words: “Whoa, Dad! You have hair in your nose!” You don’t forget a day like that. We recently held each other again in Baltimore, where she lives, and we swayed to a Lee Ann Womack song called “I Hope You Dance,” and a few lines into the song she looked up at me again and she said this: “Thanks, Dad. For everything.” And she squeezed my hand and a tear ran from her ...