My daughter’s punk style—black lipstick, fishnet gloves—drove my wife to hide her clothes, fearing she was “becoming a weirdo.” I stood up for her, returning her beloved boots and telling her, “If this is you, I’m in your corner.” Years later, after a secret art school acceptance and a terrifying studio fire, she won a national fellowship and graduated in combat boots. At her gallery speech, she said, “I owe so much to my dad. He stood by me when I didn’t know I needed it.” From tearful nights t