He taught me that honest work was something to be proud of. By sophomore year, I made a quiet promise: I would make him proud enough to erase every cruel comment.
Then came the diagnosis—cancer. Dad kept working longer than the doctors wanted, often leaning against the supply closet, exhausted, only to straighten up when he saw me: “Don’t give me that look, honey. I’m fine.” But he wasn’t fine, and we both knew it.
One thing he repeated often at the kitchen table was: “I just need to make it to prom. And then, your graduation. I want to see you get dressed up and walk out that door like you own the world, princess.”
I always told him, “You’re going to see a lot more than that, Dad.”
But a few months before prom, he lost his battle. I found out while standing in the school hallway, staring at the linoleum he used to mop.
After the funeral, I moved in with my aunt. Prom season arrived quickly, with girls comparing designer dresses that cost more than Dad’s monthly salary. Without him, I felt detached. Prom had been our moment—me walking out the door while he took too many photos.
One evening, I sat with the box of his belongings from the hospital: his wallet, his cracked watch, and at the bottom, his neatly folded work shirts—blue, gray, and one faded green. We used to joke his closet was nothing but shirts. He’d say, “A man who knows what he needs doesn’t need much else.”
Holding one shirt, the idea struck: if Dad couldn’t be at prom, I could bring him with me.
My aunt didn’t think I was crazy. “I barely know how to sew,” I admitted.
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