There comes a moment in every "daddy’s girl’s" life when the tables turn almost imperceptibly.
When you are three, "Stay with me, Daddy" means holding his hand tighter in a crowded supermarket. It means tears at the preschool gate, your tiny fingers reaching through the chain-link fence because his broad shoulders walking away feel like the sun disappearing behind a cloud.
We all know how this story ends eventually. No one gets out of here alive. But "Stay with me, Daddy" isn't actually a denial of that ending. It is a demand to savor the middle.