MY HUSBAND D:IE, SO I WENT TO THE FATHER-DAUGHTER DANCE AT SCHOOL TO SUPPORT OUR DAUGHTER — HER CLASSMATES LAUGHE
My husband used to bring our daughter flowers for the father-daughter dance every year. Six months after we buried him, I took her myself, hoping to make her happy. But her classmates laughed the moment we stepped onto the floor. Then five officers arrived and changed the whole night in seconds.
The house had grown quieter in the six months since Richard (Richie) passed away. His coffee mug still sat on the shelf where he’d left it. Some mornings I’d pass the kitchen and swear I smelled his cologne lingering in the doorway.
Mia and I were two heartbeats in a house built for three. She used to be a noisy kid. Now she moved through rooms as though she were apologizing for taking up space.
The school flyer came home on a Monday, all pink letters, glitter trim, and ‘Father-Daughter Dance, Friday Night’ printed across the front.
I set it on the counter and waited.
Mia walked in, dropped her backpack, and froze when she saw it.
“I’m not going,” she said.
“Sweetheart.”
“Mom, please. Don’t.”
She turned and went up the stairs. Her bedroom door clicked shut gently, which somehow hurt more than a slam.
