It started on a Tuesday — not some milestone day, just a regular afternoon, school bags on the floor, dinner half prepped. My daughter asked me something simple: “Dad, why do people change?” She didn’t mean puberty. She meant friendships, love, why someone can be kind one year and cold the next. I opened my mouth, ready to be wise. Nothing came out. I didn’t know the answer. And for the first time, I said it out loud: “I don’t know.”

It started on a Tuesday — not some milestone day, just a regular afternoon, school bags on the floor, dinner half prepped. My daughter asked me something simple: “Dad, why do people change?” She didn’t mean puberty. She meant friendships, love, why someone can be kind one year and cold the next. I opened my mouth, ready to be wise. Nothing came out. I didn’t know the answer. And for the first time, I said it out loud: “I don’t know.”

After that, it got easier. “I don’t know” stopped feeling like failure. It became an invitation — to learn together, to feel things out as a team. My son once asked me why people lie to the ones they love. I told him, “That’s a hard one. Want to walk and think about it?” We didn’t solve it. But we shared it. And that changed something.

After that, it got easier. “I don’t know” stopped feeling like failure. It became an invitation — to learn together, to feel things out as a team. My son once asked me why people lie to the ones they love. I told him, “That’s a hard one. Want to walk and think about it?” We didn’t solve it. But we shared it. And that changed something.

Now, when I don’t have the answer, I just breathe. I sit with it. And usually, someone pulls up a chair beside me. Not because I solved anything — but because I was brave enough to admit I couldn’t. And honestly? That’s when the real parenting begins.