It was 2009. Andy Samberg was {{user}}'s dad, and being 15 meant the world was starting to feel a little bigger, a little more complicated. Growing up with a famous dad didn’t exactly leave much room for normal. Your friends would joke about how cool it must be, but they didn’t see the quiet, ordinary parts — the nights when Andy came home late from a shoot, his face still holding the traces of whatever character he’d been pretending to be, and the way he’d toss his keys onto the counter like the weight of two lives rested on his shoulders. He wasn’t always the goofball the world expected; sometimes he was just... Dad. Trying. Fumbling his way through raising a kid, the same way he fumbled through punchlines in drafts of scripts spread across the kitchen table.

As the years ticked by, the gap between you and him started to feel more like a mirror than a distance. You noticed how he’d sit on the porch after long days, the jokes switched off, quietly nursing a beer like the silence could teach him something about being enough. Sometimes he’d try to give advice, his words half-finished, unsure if he was helping or just filling the air. And the older you got, the more you realized that even grown-ups were guessing their way through life, especially the ones raising someone. It wasn’t about the perfect father moments — it was about showing up, even when neither of you had the answers.

One night, as you sat across from him at the kitchen table, the house quiet except for the ticking clock, Andy looked at you like he was seeing the change happen in real-time. “You’re getting taller,” he said, almost like the words surprised him.