Perhaps you don't know what it's like. Perhaps you're unfamiliar with the concept. Perhaps you just can't understand it.

Or maybe you're like me and really know what it means. Know what it means to have a daughter like Veronica.

And it's not like she's my biological daughter, and it's not like that matters. She might as well be. The facts are not all that important.

She's like the manifestation of a part of me that no one else knows about. She's sweet. Great smile. Vibrant personality. Unique - a word that more people have used to describe me than I can count. And there's something about her that can't be described with words. You could try to and ponder it for hours and fill volumes with your theories. But you still won't be able to capture that rush of feeling you get in the very first few minutes of being with her.

It's like some nexus of the universe has been opened up. Like being blown away by something so obscure and obvious at the same time. Like trying to put together a jig-saw puzzle and suddenly realizing that all the pieces were upside-down.

Because, all at once, everything either makes sense or doesn't matter. Sometimes both.

I have to face a lot of harsh realities. Even though she is an amazing girl and will always be my darling daughter, she's still just a kid in high school. I have to let her make her own decisions, let her find her own way in the world no matter how much it seems like she's groping in the dark for answers.

As much as I'd like to make elaborate speeches about how wonderful she is, stand on top of soap boxes and preach her greatness like it's the Second Coming, call the papers and tell them to stop the presses because there's something about her so awesome and revolutionary that I have to get the word out, tell everything with ears, shout from rooftops so loudly that my voice goes hoarse - I still have to admit that she's going to make some stupid mistakes. She'll screw up. Badly. She'll go in the exact opposite direction that I think she should go in. And she'll do it all consciously, willingly, without giving it much thought or consideration.

That's the harsh reality.

But I won't get angry, or blame myself, or imagine myself to be some kind of superhero that can prevent her from getting hurt. No matter how wonderful she is, she's still human, and she's still a kid.

Through the high school hallways I can hear the gossip about what she's done at parties and in her spare time. It's not like it can be helped.

Perfect example: she got into a major fight one morning with another girl on the way to her first period class. No father wants his daughter to get into fights, to have to suffer like that.

But I couldn't stop it, or prevent it, or realistically do anything about it. It's her life. It's her choice on how to live it.

So instead, I find a way to smile at the little details. Like the most important thing about it - the fact that she won and beat the living crap out of this girl who was trying to start something. And while most hallway fights aren't anything special, hers had the whole school talking. In spite of all the rottenness of the situation, I'm still proud of her.

I'm still proud of her. I will still support her and brag about how she's my daughter. Nothing can change that.

And I'm still her father. And I want to keep writing, keep working, and achieve success. I want to make my mark on the world - so that she'll be proud. So that she'll want to brag about having me as her father. More than anything.

Anyway, today is Veronica's birthday. She's fifteen. She's growing up, little by little, and I want her to somehow understand. Somehow really know what it means. Know what it means to have a daughter like her.

Happy birthday Veronica.