A Father’s Jaunt to Veronica’s Nuptials, or Why I’m Crying in My In-Flight Vodka

Lord, get me through this week...

I’m travelling this week so the Sunrise Show Prep newsletter will be on hiatus until I return. I’m in California for my daughter’s wedding. I’ll be sharing some of my thoughts about this momentous occasion as well as reactions to the conditions in the Golden State and any major events in the world. - Larry

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A Father’s Jaunt to Veronica’s Nuptials, or Why I’m Crying in My In-Flight Vodka

The plane hums through a sky slathered with sunset, all pinks and golds like a bartender overshot the grenadine. I’m crammed in a window seat, my knees plotting a mutiny against the seatback, flying to California for my daughter’s wedding. Veronica, my second kid, my youngest girl, the first to chuck the family name for a new one. This Saturday, she’ll trade her Navy blues for a white dress, and I’m a wreck—half grinning like I hit the jackpot, half moping like I lost my best fishing buddy (even though we never actually went fishing, but you get the idea). My heart’s doing a polka, and I’m not sure if it’s joy or the in-flight vodka.

Veronica’s always been the kid with the grin that could charm sharks. She’d perch on my knee, little hands sticky with some yummy food, swearing she’d be the president (and for a while the Pope until I broke the news to her about that). Now she’s a Navy gal, all brass and backbone, and she’s snagged a Marine with a grip like a bear trap and a look that says Veronica’s his whole campaign. He’s a stand-up guy—terrific, even—the kind who’d charge a bunker or make an exquisite charcoal rendering of the Holy Family with the same gusto and artistic panache. She sparkles around him like a firecracker, and I’m over the moon, even if it feels like someone’s twisting my heart like a bar rag.

First kid to get hitched, and it’s like someone’s rewriting my life’s script without my vote. I see her as a tot, drooling on my tie, her giggles better than any stand-up routine. I see her at ten, outsmarting her brothers in a backyard scrap, tiny but tougher than a tax collector. She’s my youngest daughter, the one who’d swipe my reading glasses and prance around like a mini scholar, cackling like she’d hacked the Pentagon. Now she’s a grown woman, a sailor (the nuclear type) with nerves of titanium, stepping into a life where I’m not the guy calling the shots.

The California coast glints below, all smug and sunny, like it knows it’s got my kid. I’m happy—hell, I’m practically radiant, and it ain’t just the vodka. Veronica’s found the real deal, a love that’ll ride out any gale, and I’ll hand her off with a grin that says I’m in her corner. But there’s a knot in my throat, a sly little sting. She’s not my little wingman anymore, not like when I’d chase off the bogeymen with a flashlight or detangle her hair or comfort her on my shoulder as she slept through a fever like a bundled little hotpocket. My sailor girl’s got her own heading now, and I’m just a guy saluting from the pier.

I swirl my drink, the ice clinking like a cheap metaphor for time slipping away. Some sappy tune seeps through my earbuds, and I’m back to dancing with Veronica at her Navy/Marine/Catholic send-off. This Saturday, I’ll twirl her one last time, my kid in a white dress, and I’ll try not to blubber when I pass her along to her husband. Spoiler: I’ll tank that mission. Dads always do.

The plane banks, stars popping out like they’re snooping. I’m proud, I’m maudlin, I’m a dad with a heart so full it’s sloshing over the brim. California’s waiting, and so’s Veronica, her future shinier than the Santa Monica pier. I’ll walk her down the aisle, chin up, and I’ll let her go with whatever poise I can muster. For Veronica, for her happiness, for the life she’s building with her jarhead—I’ll let her sail, even if my world’s a bit quieter without her wisecracks.

We land, and I smirk through the damp in my eyes. This is love—goofy, sappy, a punch to the gut. And I wouldn’t swap it for all the sunsets in this overpriced, kombucha-guzzling state.