Stay with him. Not because you need a protector anymore. But because he needs to know that the best thing he ever did is still right here, holding his hand.
It is no longer about fear of the dark or teenage rebellion. Now, it is the sharp intake of breath when you notice his hands shake while pouring coffee. It is the counting of gray hairs that seem to have multiplied since last Thanksgiving. It is the way you linger a little longer in the driveway after Sunday dinner, inventing reasons to stay— "Do you need the gutters cleaned?" "Did Mom tell you about the leaky faucet?"
In a world that tells us to be independent, to "cut the cord," and to stand on our own two feet, the plea "Stay with me, Daddy" feels vulnerable. It feels childlike.
It is the quiet panic when he gets winded walking up the stairs.