“Not much, sweetie… not much.”
And somehow, that always helped.
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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.
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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.
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