Not Your Pal, But Always Your Father

A Father’s Day Reflection

Somewhere along the way, I picked up a framework for fatherhood that’s guided me like a compass.

It goes something like this: when your child is small, you're the boss. As they grow and step into young adulthood, you're their supervisor. As they enter the workforce, you become their consultant. And maybe—just maybe—when they’ve built a life of their own, you get to be their friend.

It’s not original to me, but it stuck. Because it’s true.

My daughter is turning 17 soon. She is, in the way only a daughter can be, the love of my life. She’s smart, kind, pragmatic, and respectful. She has her own mind, her own style, her own fierce sense of self. And she is nearing the end of that season when I get to be “the boss.”

That realization lands differently when you’re a father—especially one who, for better or worse, came of age believing in steady hands, firm guidance and the quiet responsibility of showing up. I don’t claim some kind of primacy just because I’m her dad; her mother and I have been a team every step of the way.

Like any good team, we found our lanes over time. I’m security: protector, enforcer of boundaries, first line of defense. My wife is logistics: coordinator, planner, master of detail. We both bring in money. We split household chores. We both parent, in the trenches and on the sidelines. There’s no scoreboard. No one’s keeping tally. But when Caroline needed something—guidance, love, comfort, structure—she got it. From both of us, in the ways we were best equipped to give it.

There’s a temptation to be your kid’s best friend. I get it. It feels good to be liked. But the truth is, our kids don’t need a live-in buddy who tells dad jokes and indulges every whim. They need a father. Someone who protects, who provides, who teaches through action. Someone who sets boundaries, not to control but to cultivate. Someone who says “no” when it’s easier to say “yes,” because character doesn’t grow in a vacuum—it grows under pressure and with love.

Nowhere was that clearer to me than during the early months of COVID. Before the vaccines arrived, I assumed the unofficial title of “security chief” for our home. Like many parents, I had no playbook for what we were up against—but I knew it was serious. We limited her contact with others, just as we did our own, because we didn’t know what was coming next from a virus that ultimately killed (and continues to kill in smaller numbers) millions. It wasn’t popular. It hurt. I was denying her the time with her friends that she so desperately needed. There were days when the weight of that decision made me ache inside—but I made the call anyway. I chose protection over popularity.

I wouldn’t do it any differently.

And though we haven’t talked about it at length, I think she looks back and understands. At least I hope so.

Years ago, as a teen, I read a Dear Abby column that quoted actor Ricardo Montalban writing to his son. It struck me hard then, and it strikes me even harder now:

“I am not your pal. Our ages are too different. We can share many things, but we are not pals. I also am your friend, but we are on entirely different levels… whatever I ask you to do is motivated by love. This will be hard for you to understand until you have a son of your own. Until then, trust me.”

His tone is a bit more formal—and let’s be honest, a little more macho—than mine. But the sentiment resonates. We don’t campaign to be parents. We’re granted the role, and if we’re any good at it, we step up and play the part fully. No waffling. No ego.

And while we’re on the subject of ego: kids are not a monument to your greatness. They’re not your legacy. They’re not here to fulfill your unmet dreams or polish your image. They’re people. Human beings.

Dads, your job is to help them grow, protect them from the harm others might do, and give them what they need to live good, full lives. That includes keeping them safe, calling out the dangers, and letting them get on with it. If we’ve done it right, they won’t need us hovering in the rearview mirror; they’ll carry our love with them, not our baggage.

I lost my own father in January of this year. I think it says a lot about him that it was nearly standing room only at his funeral. We had our good times, and he certainly did things and made some choices I’ll never understand—and I’m not going to debate those things here. What I will say is this: he provided. He had four kids, and a wife who didn’t always work full-time. Everyday he went to a factory job he hated and still did his best.

From him I learned that when people are depending on you, you show up. You go to work. You do the hard thing. You swallow your pride and push through sometimes humiliating life circumstances if that’s what it takes to keep things afloat. Because, like Ricardo Montalban said, you didn’t campaign for this role. You were given it—and when you’ve brought kids into the world, that’s the only credential you need to take the job seriously.

I don’t always get it right. No father does. But I’ve tried to be the kind of father my kid can count on. The kind who listens, but doesn’t flinch from leading. The kind who pays the bills, yes, but also pays attention. Who takes the hits so she can grow strong. Who shows love not just in words, but in expectations.

As she approaches adulthood, our relationship is shifting. I feel it. And I welcome it. Because that’s the goal: to raise a person who no longer needs you to be the boss. Who respects the job you did and still wants your counsel now and then. And maybe—someday—asks you to be her friend, because you earned it.

And sometimes, I get a glimpse of that future already.

“My daughter and I—she doesn’t call it this—but a few times a month, she’ll come down to my little basement retreat. Not a man cave, just a quiet corner with a TV and a little peace. She’ll sit down and say, ‘Hey, Dad.’

I call them ‘Hey Dads.’

And I know I’m doing something right when she feels comfortable enough to say that. It means she wants to talk. Not just about her day, but mine too. We trade thoughts, we laugh, we vent. We’re building something stronger than authority—we’re building trust.”

—From MoneyWise for Teens: “MoneyWise with J. Alex Greenwood,” May 16, 2025
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But until that role shift becomes permanent, I remain what I’ve always been.

Her father.