Being a single dad wasn’t part of the plan, but it became the axis around which my life turned. I worked two jobs—day shifts with the city sanitation crew and nights cleaning offices—scraping together enough for our tiny apartment, which always carried the lingering smell of someone else’s cooking. Exhaustion was constant, but my six-year-old daughter, Lily, made every day feel worthwhile.
Her world spoke in ballet. Every joy, every worry, every spark of hope poured out through her small, determined movements. When she found a flyer for a beginner class, the cost nearly crushed me, but her eyes shone with such conviction that I promised her we’d find a way. I stashed every spare dollar in an envelope marked “Lily – Ballet”, skipping meals and stretching shifts, all to give her a chance to chase her dream.
At the studio, other parents seemed like they came from a different world, polished and assured, but Lily stepped in as if she belonged. At home, our living room transformed into her practice stage each evening. Even when I could barely keep my eyes open, she’d tug at my hands and say, “Dad, watch my arms,” and I would, because in that moment, it was the most important job in the world.
Her recital became the date I circled in my mind above everything else. But on the day, disaster struck—a water main burst during my shift, flooding the street and trapping me at work for hours. At 5:50 p.m., soaked to the bone, I ran, boots heavy, heart racing, and made it to the auditorium just in time. When Lily spotted me in the back row, her shoulders relaxed, and she danced like the world was ours alone. Watching her, I felt a weight lift from my chest.
Continue reading on next page…