When she’s happy, she spins until she stumbles sideways, laughing like she just discovered joy.

Watching her dance feels like stepping outside into fresh air.

Last spring, she spotted a flyer at the laundromat, taped crookedly above the broken change machine.

Little pink silhouettes, sparkles, “Beginner Ballet” in big looping letters.

She stared so hard the dryers could’ve caught fire and she wouldn’t have noticed.

Then she looked up at me like she’d struck gold.

“Daddy, please,” she whispered.

I saw the price and felt my stomach tighten.