He kept working as long as the doctors allowed—longer than they wanted him to. Some afternoons I’d find him leaning against the supply closet door looking exhausted.
But the moment he saw me, he’d straighten up and smile.
“Don’t give me that worried look, Emma,” he’d say. “I’m fine.”
But we both knew he wasn’t.
Still, he kept talking about two things.
Prom.
And graduation.
One evening at the kitchen table he said, “I just need to make it to prom. I want to see you all dressed up and walking out that door like you own the world.”
“You’ll see a lot more than that,” I always told him.
But a few months before prom, he lost his fight with cancer.
I found out at school, standing in the hallway with my backpack still on. I remember staring down at the shiny tile floor and thinking how much it looked like the floors Dad used to mop every night.
After that, everything felt blurry.
The week after the funeral, I moved in with my aunt, Linda. Her spare bedroom smelled like cedar and laundry detergent, nothing like the little house Dad and I had shared.
Then prom season arrived.