Every scraped knee, every bedtime story, every moment—I was there. Always.
I learned to French braid with trembling fingers and YouTube videos because she wanted “Elsa hair.” I juggled bills just to afford her dance classes. I cheered louder than any other parent from the bleachers, even when she just stood in the back row of a school play waving a cardboard sun. She thought she was background—I saw the light in her.
And on her graduation day, I was front row, clutching white roses and shaking like it was my name being called. My shirt was ironed twice over. I’d rehearsed the words, the smile, the stupid cheer that would embarrass her in the best way. I wanted to give her one more moment of feeling seen. I didn’t expect it to be the one that broke me.
