—he meant Mom.
The mom who always told him he wasn’t “dad enough.” The one who slammed the door on him last year and said he’d never see me again.
My hands shook as I stared at the rose. “She let you come?”
He gave me a small smile. “No. I went to court yesterday. Signed the papers this morning. Full custody—of our nights like this, at least. No more missed dances. No more broken promises.”
A lump caught in my throat. Around us, music played and girls spun like petals on the gym floor. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
He stood up slowly, held out his hand.
“May I have this dance, ma’am?”
I threw my arms around him, burying my face in his dusty vest. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel like the girl who always waited by the door. I felt seen. Chosen.
We didn’t dance perfectly. He stepped on my foot once, and I tripped on my hem. But none of it mattered.
Because he showed up.
Lesson:
Being a father isn’t about perfection — it’s about showing up, especially when it’s hard. Sometimes love arrives late… but right on time.
