After my parents split and my mom passed away, I had to live with my dad—the very man she warned me about. “He’ll never grow up,” she’d say. “A lost cause.” So, I wasn’t expecting much.
Living with him was strange. He’d sneak out late at night, and I never asked why. I was still grieving and stuck—literally—in a wheelchair after my accident. Surgery could fix things, but we couldn’t afford it.
Prom was coming, but for me, it was just a painful reminder of what I’d lost. No date, no dress, no hope. I planned to stay home, watch movies, and hold back tears.
Then one night, my dad knocked with a gas station corsage and said, “Put on something nice. You’re going to prom.”
I couldn’t believe it. But I got ready, and we went.
That night, he rolled me in like we belonged. He joked, made people laugh, and somehow got me dancing. For the first time in a long while, I felt seen—not invisible. Alive. Like a normal teen.
The next morning, he came in holding an envelope with wide eyes.
It was a $10,000 check and a note saying, “Dad of the Year.”
He smiled and whispered, “I think I know who sent this.”
And in that moment, I realized whatever secrets he kept, they were all for me.
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