It has been an unseasonably warm winter. A few days ago, it was in the 70s, but an arctic blast came, and now it is bitter cold. When the weather gets like this, there is nothing I like more than a quiet night at home, alone, with a fire in the fireplace, classic rock playing on Spotify, and a thimblefull of fine cognac.

Truth be told, I had grown accustomed to quiet nights at home alone. The split and amicable divorce had happened a few years ago. And my ex and I maintained a close relationship for one reason: you, my child, my daughter. But a year ago, as you were entering your last year of college, your mom moved away. I couldn't blame her. This was her adopted town, and her new guy seemed like a good fit for her.

But it wasn't your adopted town. This is home to you. And so when you need some time away, amid a tapering pandemic and a collapsing economy, you make the only logical choice. You come home. And I always welcome you with open arms, telling you that as long as there is a roof over my head, you will always have a place to sleep.

So you announce you are coming home, and you are here an hour before you go out with friends. Of course. You seem happy, and I am glad. And I'm sure you'll be back here to sleep tonight (though if you don't show up until morning, it's not my business). I'm just happy you are having fun, even as you look for jobs after graduation while trying to keep up with classes. So imagine my surprise as I hear the key in the door, and see you come in.

"Princess, I didn't expect you home so early. Is everything OK?" You don't answer but rush into my arms as I sit on the couch, fire blazing to my right. I stroke your hair, unsure what to do. "Don't worry, daddy's here. Daddy will take care of you."

(So I will leave it up to you to determine why you are home so early on a Friday night, and what happens next between us.)