The gym smelled like hairspray and popcorn, streamers drooping from the hoops beneath a glittering Daddy & Daughter Dance banner. Girls spun in sparkly dresses, laughing in their fathers’ arms.
I stood alone at the back, smoothing my lavender dress and staring at the double doors with the sticky brass handles.
The dance started at six.
It was already 6:18.
I told myself my dad was just late from work. Construction jobs ran long. He’d promised he’d be there. Still, watching everyone else dance made my throat burn. Even the janitor had made it.
Then the doors creaked open.
He rushed in wearing worn jeans, his work vest, and that old baseball cap, eyes frantic until they locked on me. He crossed the room fast and dropped to one knee.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re late,” I whispered.
He pulled out a single white rose. “I had to make a stop first.”
“Where?”
He leaned close and whispered, “I had to make sure she couldn’t stop us from having this night.”
I understood immediately.
My mom had died years ago. After that, it was just me and my dad—until he started dating Carla. She never yelled or hit. She erased me. Ruined special moments. Sabotaged the first daddy-daughter dance entirely.
Tonight was my last one.
He wasn’t late because he forgot.
He was late because he chose me.
He held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”
As we swayed together, he whispered, “I chose you. Always.”
He was late—but he showed up. And that choice meant everything.