Dear Luciana,

I just got back from your first party where I was invited by people who never met your mommy.

Everyone I know knew her. Other than the host, these people don’t even know you don’t have a mommy.

I thought that would feel like freedom. Walking in clean. No one was looking at me with the head tilt. The SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS face. The flinch.

It didn’t feel like freedom. I still stuck out. Badly.

Turns out you carry it in even when nobody knows. It’s not the head tilts that mark you. It’s something underneath. The way I stood near the wall. The way I counted exits. The way I held a drink I didn’t want so my hands had a job.

I do this because I have to.

People will pretend I have a choice.

Mommy knew every name in every room she walked into. She was the people person. I don’t want you to turn into me. If I’m going to turn you into a mini mommy instead, I have to start now. No pressure.

The parties. The play-dates. The small talk. All of it makes me want to walk into the ocean.

I’m exaggerating. It’s not like this was a one-on-one play-date.

You had a blast. You really did. You found the one good corner with the good toys and you OWNED it. Total joy. And you played by yourself the entire time. Happily. Completely. Not lonely. Just solo.

You’re fine alone. You’re a kid who can make a cardboard box a whole civilization.

I’m dragging us both to these things and calling it “for Luciana,” and the honest version is: Daddy needs human interaction or Daddy starts talking to the dishwasher. The problem is that Daddy would much rather talk to the dishwasher. It doesn’t talk back.

I tell people I’m bringing my daughter to a thing. The truth is you’re bringing me. You’re the reason I’m allowed to be there. The cute, verbal little permission slip in tiny shoes.

But it’s still a very lonely existence. Just in public. I scanned that whole party. Forty adults, maybe. Couples. Couples. A cluster of couples. Two parents per kid, everywhere I looked. Tag-teaming the snack table. Doing the eyebrow thing across the room that married people do.

Not one single parent in the building. Not one.

I’m not even mad about it. It’s just math. Two-parent households throw the parties. The single dad is the thing they talk about gently in the car on the way home.

So I worked the room as your plus one. I learned three new names I will forget by Tuesday. I said “oh she’s two, she’s so busy” maybe nine times. I watched you not need me for forty-five straight minutes and felt the specific ache of being SO PROUD and SO USELESS at the same time.

That’s the deal now. You thrive. I lurk near the snacks for emotional support. We call it a family outing.

One day the room won’t feel like that.

One day I’ll learn a name and remember it.

And you should grow up knowing your daddy showed up. Even when he was the only one standing slightly wrong by the wall.

You did great today. Thanks for getting me in the door.

Now stop throwing a fit because I just put you down for a nap. I swear your scream could be used as a dog whistle.

Besitos, 

Daddy