This morning I climbed into bed with my 16-year-old daughter, the girl who is so often mad at me and not as readily affectionate as she once was. I got under the covers as she stirred-her warmth enveloping my cool body. I curled up against her back and pressed my face to her shoulder; I couldn't stop smiling.
"Life is hard, Katie," I heard my father's words, "And we live for the good moments."
I watched my daughter's tender profile as she slept for some time, and when I stood up to go make the coffee, she whispered to me, "Stay."