Prom was supposed to be the night everything felt perfect, but I spent most of it staring at the doors. My name is Kelly, and for months, I had been pretending I didn’t care whether my father showed up.
It was easier that way.
Easier than admitting I still wanted him there, even after all the missed games, canceled dinners, and nights when I heard him unlock the front door long after midnight.
Dad worked for a cleaning company that handled schools and office buildings across the county. He left before sunrise and came home smelling like bleach, floor wax, and exhaustion.
Most days, our conversations barely lasted five minutes before turning into arguments.
“You missed my volleyball game again,” I told him one night.
He rubbed his tired eyes. “I know, Kel. I’m sorry.”