I waited near the folding chairs for over twenty minutes, watching the father-daughter dance start without my dad. Everyone was dancing—even the janitor, Mr. Wheeler, who looked so happy with his niece. Just when I thought he wouldn’t come, the door creaked open. Wearing jeans, his vest, and his usual hat, my dad’s eyes met mine, full of regret. “You’re late,” I said. He gave me a rose and said, “I had to stop somewhere first.”
“Where?” I asked. He paused, then said, “I wanted to make sure she wouldn’t stop us from having this night.” I knew he meant mom. They divorced years ago, and things have been rough since. I told her I wouldn’t miss another father-daughter dance,” he said.
