My name is Selena. I’m 17, and my dad, Billy, has been a gardener my whole life. Since Mom passed away when I was 12, it’s just the two of us. We’re not rich, but we have each other—and take pride in our work. Every dawn at 5, Dad heads out in worn boots and an old cap and returns at dusk with dirt-stained jeans and soil under his nails. I help on weekends—planting roses for Mrs. Chen, trimming hedges at Riverside Park, building flower beds. My hands get dirty too, and I don’t mind. Dad calls it “honest work.”
But Taylor, with her perfect lawns and parents’ money, didn’t get it. At lunch, she mocked Dad’s hands. Last week, when he brought me forgotten lunch, she called them “disgusting” and made everyone laugh. I wanted to vanish—but Dad just smiled and kept being loving.
Prom night came. Dad bought a new shirt and tried extra hard to clean his hands, but the dirt stayed. Still, he said, “You look beautiful.” During our dance, Taylor shouted through the music, mocking my dad again. Something inside me snapped—I whispered, “She lost her dad too.” Dad understood, and grabbed the mic: “Taylor, may I have this dance?” At that moment, the cruel girl broke. He gave her a bouquet of homegrown roses, saying how much care goes into growing beauty. Taylor sobbed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Dad said, “We all miss people we love.”
Days later, Taylor came by, awkward and full of regret. She’s helping in our garden after school, complaining at first, but gradually learning. I watched as wonder lit up her face when she touched a seed. Last night, she sat on our porch with dirt under her nails and said softly, “I think I get it now.” That’s what real strength looks like—hands that build something beautiful from nothing.