One thing kept coming up in Dad’s words, sitting at the kitchen table after his work: “I just have to stand until the prom. And then, until you graduate. I want to see you dress and walk through this door like you’re the queen of the world, my princess. »
“You’ll see more than that, Dad,” I always replied.
A few months before the ball, he lost his battle with cancer and died before I could get to the hospital.
I found out as I stood in the hallway of the school, my backpack on my shoulders.
I remember noticing that linoleum looked exactly like the one Dad was passing through the mop, and then I have little in mind after that.
