I’ve never been the type to cry at weddings (except my own, of course, during which I was a blubbering mess) but Powergirl and I attended her best friend’s nuptials this weekend, and I got teary-eyed during the father-daughter dance.

Naturally, I couldn’t help but think about what the dance at L’s wedding would be like, and what song she’ll want to dance to.

(FYI, Powergirl and her pop danced to Paul Simon’s “Father and Daughter” at our wedding).

The daddy-daughter dance tradition has odd beginnings. Historically, the pageantry has symbolized some sort of change of ownership—the father gets one last hurrah before ceremonially handing his little girl over to her new No. 1. This old-world notion of “ownership” has changed somewhat over the years, though to some extent, the ritual still implies some sort of changing of the guard.

There’s no way control-freak fathers like myself can arrive at that moment without asking themselves at least once, “Can my baby girl’s partner love her the way I have all these years?”

The answer to this question, of course, is no.

I’ve learned it as a son-in-law and now as a father myself: no partner can match or mirror a lifetime of unconditional love of a father for his daughter, and no partner ever should try.

How could I, as Powergirl’s new husband on that night in 2004, know what it was like to love her before she became the woman she is today? What’s more, how can L’s partner-to-be ever know what it was like for me to stay up both nights this weekend, letting her suck my finger in a desperate effort to ease the pain of her first tooth?

Don’t get me wrong here, a wedding day is all about the newlyweds. But let’s face it: for these lovebirds, the love is just starting; for moms and dads, the love already has existed for a lifetime. The father-daughter dance is a wonderful and modest acknowledgment of this reality, a shout-out to the fact that some ties never sunder. For that reason alone, a little vaklempt is fine by me.