What are your intentions with my daughter?

What I’d Say to Her Dad, If He Asked Me.

I think I blacked out for a second when he asked the question.

“What are your intentions with my daughter?”

I had answers, you know? Neatly folded like notes in my pocket.
But when the moment came, they scattered.
Because how do you sum up love like that in a single, acceptable sentence?

I looked him in the eye, nodded once, and said the only thing that made sense in that second:

“To never let her carry the groceries alone.”

Not the smoothest opener. But that’s what love looks like to me. I don’t want her carrying anything heavy, not bags, not bad memories, not the weight of being too much or not enough.

It’s in the little things.

Like holding her drink while she ties her hair. Picking the onion out of her burger, even though she says it’s okay. Texting her a photo of a cat in sunglasses because I know she’d laugh.

I want to be there for her Tuesday mornings when she’s half-asleep and humming while folding laundry. I want to learn the shape of her silences. Know when “I’m fine” isn’t. Know how to wait for the words she’s still finding.

I want to be the person she reaches for, not because I have answers, but because I’ll sit beside her through the storm, even if we both get soaked.

I’m not perfect. I’ll forget things. I’ll mess up dinner plans. But I’ll never stop showing up.

And I’ll laugh at her dad jokes. Every single one. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.

I don’t want to take her away from anything. I want to add to the life she’s already built.
I want to be the background cheer every time she steps into something new.
I want to learn how she folds her shirts, what song makes her feel like the main character, and the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking too hard.

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My intentions?

To make her feel chosen. Every day. Not just on birthdays or when she wears something that turns heads. But on a Monday morning, when her hair’s a mess and she’s still beautiful. On a rainy afternoon when she’s curled up and quiet. On the days she feels distant, and I choose to stay close anyway.

I want to be the guy who texts her goodnight even when we’ve already said it in person. Who reminds her that love doesn’t have to shout to be strong.
That comfort can be romantic. That showing up, again and again, is its own kind of poetry.

I want to grow old beside her, sure.
But more than that, I want to grow up with her.

Through every misstep, compromise, and awkward silence after arguing about the dumbest thing.
I want to be the reason she exhales in relief, not frustration.

I want to make her laugh until she snorts. Dance with her in the parking lots. Bring her flowers for no reason and snacks for every reason. Watch her fall asleep during movies she begged to watch. Be the safe place she comes back to when the world spins too fast.

So no, I don’t have a five-year plan with synchronized yoga sessions and a Pinterest-perfect house.
But I do have this:

I’ll carry her heart like it’s a handwritten letter.
With care.
With intention.
With both hands.

And when she wants to go for a drive at 11:52 p.m. just to breathe, I’ll be the one at the wheel, windows down, radio low, letting her pick every so often, even the sad ones.

That's my answer, sir.

And I mean every word.