The low, steady hum of the Boeing 737 engines was the only sound in the cabin.

We were 2 hours into our 5-hour flight to Seattle, cruising somewhere over the snow-capped Rocky Mountains. Maya was sitting next to me in the window seat, colored pencils scattered across her tray table, drawing in her notebook.

Suddenly, she stopped drawing. Her colored pencil rolled off the tray and landed in her lap.

She leaned close to my shoulder, her voice barely a breath against the ambient noise.

“Dad, I think my period started!” she whispered, her eyes wide.

I froze for a split second, a sudden jolt of adrenaline hitting my chest. I keep going back and forth about whether I should have read more parenting guides, but in that moment, I was just trying to stay calm.

I nodded, trying to give her a reassuring smile.

“Do not worry, sweetie,” I whispered back. “We are ready for this.”

I unzipped the front pocket of my backpack. I reached past the charging cables and granola bars, my fingers finding the small plastic-wrapped package Aunt Val had packed for us.

I handed it to Maya. She clutched it in her fist, slid out of her seat, and hurried down the narrow aisle toward the restrooms at the back of the plane.

I leaned back in my seat, letting out a long breath. I felt a wave of relief.

I actually felt proud of myself. For years, I had worried about this exact moment.

Let me back up for a second.

I know how this sounds. I know some people might think a father should know these things, but you have to understand my situation.

I have raised Maya alone since she was 4 years old. My wife, Sarah, died of breast cancer after a long, painful battle that left me emotionally hollow and financially broke.

I had to learn everything on the fly. I learned how to braid her hair, how to shop for school clothes, and how to talk about friendships.

But the physical changes of puberty were a dark territory for me. I had no sisters, and my mother lived across the country.

A month before our trip, my sister-in-law, Val, sat me down in my kitchen in Grand Rapids.

She told me that Maya was turning 12. She said it was time to start preparing.