The Hannah Montana moniker had actually been her idea.
"I think it makes sense," her mom had said to her father.
They'd debated the whole thing in one of the waiting rooms at the agency. Her dad did not take to it.
"It's just going to confuse people. You do realize that her target demographic is like, five year olds, right?"
"You never know, Robbie, about—" her mother's eyes flit back and forth between Robbie Ray and her daughter, "—you-know-whats who might be watching her music videos or coming to her concerts and doing… you know what to themselves. Or god forbid, trying to do something to her."
"She'll be fine. I've had to deal with my own crazy fans; I could handle it, and so can she."
"Miley's a twelve-year-old girl, Robbie. It'll be different for her than it was for you."
"So? I'll always be there to protect her, and last I checked I sure weren't no thirteen-year-old girl," and then he grinned. First at her mother, and then at her.
At the time, the thought that her father would always be with her—that was comforting.
"You don't have to worry about a thing, Miley," he'd told her, then. "Your old man will always be on the sidelines, watching over you."