This morning, my 3-year-old daughter Violet leaned in close and whispered, “Daddy, I know your nickname.” You know the type of toddler whisper—loud, breathy, totally adorable. I whispered back, playing along, “What’s my nickname?”
She glanced around dramatically and said, completely serious:
“It’s Chris. Your nickname is Chris.”
I blinked. Did she just… call me by my first name?
I’ve already been adjusting to hearing “Dad” instead of “Daddy,” which feels like its own small heartbreak. But this? This was a whole new level.
Trying not to laugh, I asked her where she heard it.
“At the dance studio,” she said proudly. “They all call you Chris Lynam.”
Ah. Makes sense. But then she added:
“And I have a nickname too. It’s Violet Lynam. We have the same nickname, Daddy. It’s just like yours.”
That’s when it hit me.
To her, sharing a name wasn’t about identity or formality. It was about belonging. We weren’t just father and daughter—we were a team, a pair, two people with matching nicknames.
I could’ve corrected her… but why would I?
She wasn’t wrong.
We do share a name.
We do share a life.
And we do share something far deeper than either of us can explain.
For now, I’ll happily be “Chris” if it means I get to belong to her world—just as she belongs to mine.
Later that day, I took Violet to her dance class. I had been meaning to do it for a while. The studio, tucked between two busy streets in town, always had a hum of music and the clatter of young feet. I didn’t mind it. I liked seeing Violet lose herself in the rhythm, her face lighting up like she was in the middle of some grand performance.
The class was just wrapping up as I arrived. Violet was standing in the middle of the room, her eyes locked on her instructor, Miss Emma. Miss Emma had this graceful yet authoritative way about her, making the children hang on her every word. Violet, though, seemed to drift somewhere in her own world, a smile playing on her lips.
“Hey, sweetie,” I called out as I leaned in through the door, trying to get her attention. Her eyes immediately found mine, and her face lit up like a beacon.
“Chris!” she yelled, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone was now staring. She ran over and hugged my leg, her tiny arms wrapping around my waist like I was the most important thing in the world.
I froze for a second. There it was again—Chris.
Miss Emma turned, raising an eyebrow. “I see Violet’s been spending a lot of time with her father.”
“Yeah,” I laughed nervously. “She’s got me all figured out.”
Violet, still grinning, held onto my leg as we walked out of the studio. I could feel the stares from the other parents—moms and dads, all clutching coffee cups or tapping away on their phones. None of them seemed to blink when Violet shouted my first name, though, which made me think: Do they see me as just another guy in the room? I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it.
We made our way out into the crisp autumn air. The sun was just beginning to set, casting an orange hue over the city. Violet skipped along beside me, her little legs carrying her faster than I could keep up.
“Daddy, I know you love me,” she said suddenly, her tone serious again.
“Of course I love you,” I replied, chuckling at her sudden change in mood. “You’re my everything.”
She looked up at me, her wide brown eyes searching my face. “And I love you, too, Chris.”
It was as if she was holding something important back. The way she said it—so matter-of-factly—struck me. For a moment, I wondered if she had any idea what those words really meant. She was only three, after all.
But then again, maybe she did. Violet’s emotional intelligence was something I admired. I had often thought that children, in their simplicity, understood more than we gave them credit for. They didn’t have the complex barriers of logic and reason we adults clung to. They just felt.
We continued walking, and the conversation flowed into the usual toddler chatter. Violet telling me about her friends in class, the teacher’s smile, how one of the other kids could do a cartwheel. She loved to talk about everyone else, but whenever it came to talking about us, she would always slip back into calling me Chris.
That night, after Violet had gone to bed, I sat down with my wife, Sarah, to talk about the day. Sarah had been in and out of the house all day for work, and I could tell she was tired.
“Did you hear Violet today?” I asked, sitting down on the couch beside her. “She keeps calling me Chris.”
Sarah’s eyes widened for a split second before she smiled, a faint hint of amusement crossing her face. “She does that sometimes.”
“I know, but it’s different now,” I continued, my voice quieter. “She’s calling me Chris like she’s… she’s not even thinking about it. Like it’s just natural.”
“Well,” Sarah said, taking a sip of her tea, “you are Chris. That’s your name, right?”
“I know, but… I don’t know. It feels weird to hear it from her. She’s calling me by my name like she’s one of the other grown-ups in the room. I thought I was supposed to be ‘Daddy’ forever.”
Sarah smiled gently, rubbing her hand over mine. “You’ll always be her Daddy. But she’s growing up, and with that, the dynamics will change. She’ll start seeing you differently. But that doesn’t mean she loves you any less.”
I nodded slowly, trying to understand. “I know, I know. But I can’t help but feel like she’s slipping away from me just a little bit.”
“Chris,” Sarah said softly, her voice warm with reassurance. “She’s not slipping away. She’s finding her way in the world, and she’s bringing you along with her. You’ll always be her Dad. Always. And that will never change. No matter what she calls you.”
That night, as I lay in bed beside Sarah, I thought about what she had said. She was right. I couldn’t hold on to the past forever. The world was shifting around me, and Violet was becoming her own person. It wasn’t just a shift in how she saw me—it was how she was seeing herself, too.
A few weeks later, I was at Violet’s school picking her up when her teacher pulled me aside.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Mrs. Clark said, her face serious. “Violet has been talking a lot about you lately. I think it’s important we address something.”
“Sure,” I said, trying to hide the concern in my voice. “What’s going on?”
“Well, she’s been telling the other kids that her name is Violet Lynam. It’s been a little confusing for them. They’re starting to think she’s not just Violet, but someone else.”
My stomach dropped. “What do you mean? She’s just calling herself Violet. She’s been doing that forever.”
“Right, but she’s also been saying, ‘I’m Violet Lynam, just like my dad. We share the same nickname.’”
I blinked. “Violet Lynam?”
“That’s what she’s been saying. I think it’s sweet, but I just wanted to make sure you were aware of it.”
My mind raced. Violet had been talking about us sharing a name, but I hadn’t thought it would spill over into her everyday life. It wasn’t just a cute nickname anymore—it was her reality.
That night, I sat down with Violet and asked her about it.
“Violet,” I said softly, “why do you call yourself Violet Lynam?”
She looked up at me, her face full of innocence. “Because that’s my name, Daddy. Just like you’re Chris Lynam. We have the same name.”
I smiled, my heart warming. She had found a way to express something so simple, yet so powerful. It wasn’t about the name itself—it was about her need to feel connected, to be part of something bigger than herself. She didn’t see a difference between my name and hers. We were a team. And that was enough for her.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this was just a phase. A small, beautiful phase of her life where everything felt connected. And though she would eventually grow out of it, I would carry this moment with me forever.
A few months passed, and things slowly began to change. Violet didn’t call me “Chris” as often, but every now and then, when she wanted to get my attention, I’d hear it slip out again. And each time, it felt like a little reminder of how far we had come together.
I never corrected her again. Because sometimes, the small things—like a simple nickname—can mean the world.
And in those moments, when I heard “Chris” come from her lips, I realized that the love we shared wasn’t bound by titles. It was about understanding, connection, and the unspoken bond that made us who we were.
As she grew older, Violet started using “Dad” again, as most kids do. But every now and then, she’d say, “Hey, Chris,” and I’d smile, remembering the time when we were both Violet and Chris Lynam, a pair—two souls who belonged to one another, no matter what came next.
And in the end, I learned that love isn’t about holding on to the past. It’s about letting go and embracing the changes, no matter how small, knowing that the bond will always remain, even when the names shift.
