I stitched my prom dress from my late father’s old shirts to honor his memory. My classmates laughed and mocked me—until the principal took the microphone, spoke up for me, and suddenly the entire room fell silent.
I stitched my prom dress from my late father’s old shirts to honor his memory. My classmates laughed and mocked me—until the principal took the microphone, spoke up for me, and suddenly the entire room fell silent.
For as long as I can remember, my world had always been small in the best possible way.
Not small like lonely or quiet, but small like safe. Like a little house filled with warm light where everything that mattered fit inside the same two rooms and one narrow hallway.
It had always been just my dad and me.
His name was Samuel Carter, though nobody ever called him that except the school district on tax forms and the occasional substitute teacher who didn’t know better. To everyone else, he was simply Mr. Carter, the janitor who had worked at Eastbrook High School longer than most of the teachers had been employed there.
And to me, he was just Dad.
