The Daddy-Daughter Dance He Fought to Make Happen
The gym smelled like hairspray, popcorn, and cheap cologne—the kind of mix that clings to your clothes long after the night ends. Purple and silver streamers sagged from the basketball hoops, and paper stars were taped unevenly to the walls. Someone had dimmed the lights just enough to make the space feel magical.
Across the stage, glittery letters spelled out:
DADDY & DAUGHTER DANCE
Soft, scratchy music floated through the speakers. Around me, girls twirled in sparkling dresses, their fathers bending to adjust bows, retie shoes, or wipe off stray lip gloss. Laughter bounced off the walls. Warmth filled the room.
Except where I stood.
Near the back. Alone.
I clutched the sides of my lavender dress, smoothing the fabric again and again. Every time the double doors creaked open, my heart leapt. Every time, it wasn’t him.
The dance started at six. By 6:18, hope felt heavy. I told myself he’d be late—construction jobs run long. Tools break. Traffic happens. I understood. Still, it hurt.
I watched Mr. Wheeler, the janitor, spin his niece effortlessly. Even he had made it. My throat burned.
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