I was ten when my world quietly shifted in a way I didn’t yet have words for. My parents had divorced years earlier, and life with my mom had a rhythm—but I wasn’t ready to let anyone step into my dad’s place.
Then came Jim.
He wasn’t trying to replace my dad. He was just a man suddenly living in our house, sitting at our dinner table, trying just a little too hard to win me over. I kept my distance. One-word answers. Eye rolls at his jokes. No matter how kind he was, I refused to let him in.
That winter, my school announced a holiday concert. It wasn’t Broadway—just the gym decked out with paper snowflakes and a few strings of lights—but for me, it felt huge. I had a small solo: a few lines in a carol. I practiced relentlessly—humming under my breath, whispering the words before bed, rehearsing in front of the mirror.
The night of the concert, nerves hit hard. My mom’s shift ran late, and she couldn’t make it. I told her it was fine, but inside, I felt crushed. I wanted her there in the front row, clapping and smiling.
When my moment came, I froze on stage. My hands trembled. My mouth went dry. The words vanished.
Then a voice cut through the silence:
“You’ve got this!”
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