I watched father-daughter pairs dance across the school gym for more than twenty minutes while I waited by the folding chairs. Even the janitor, Mr. Wheeler, was proudly twirling his niece as laughter erupted. But I stood by myself, hoping, watching the door.

The door creaked open as I was about to give up. When my dad entered, wearing jeans, a vest, and an old hat, he looked at me apologetically.

“You’re running late,” I said.

He gave me a solitary rose. “I needed to make a quick stop first.”

“Where?”

He paused. “I wanted to ensure that she wouldn’t prevent us from enjoying this evening.”

He was referring to my mother. It had been difficult since their divorce. But he refused to back down. “I assured her that I would not miss another dance between a father and daughter.”

One of my favorite memories is of that night. As if nothing else mattered, he danced.

“She’s moving to St. Louis—and she’s taking you with her,” he said softly later on the way home. However, only if that is your desire.

I was taken aback. It had everything I loved.

A custody battle started a few days later. I was judged old enough to make my own decisions. “My dad wasn’t always around, but when he was, he showed up with his whole heart,” I responded when questioned.

I decided to remain with him. Despite being devastated, my mother accepted my decision.

I have good relationships with both of my parents now that I’m a college student. What about my father? He hasn’t missed a second since that evening.

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