Last year, Dad was diagnosed with cancer. He kept working as long as the doctors allowed—longer than they recommended, honestly.

Some afternoons I’d see him leaning against the supply closet, looking drained.

The moment he noticed me, he’d stand straighter and smile. “Don’t give me that look, honey. I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t fine, and we both knew it.

One thing he kept saying while sitting at the kitchen table after work was, “I just need to make it to prom. And then your graduation. I want to see you all dressed up and walking out that door like you own the world, princess.”

“You’re going to see a lot more than that, Dad,” I always said.

But a few months before prom, he lost his fight with cancer. He passed away before I even reached the hospital.

I found out standing in the hallway at school with my backpack still on my shoulder.

The only thing I remember clearly is staring at the linoleum floor and thinking it looked exactly like the kind Dad used to mop. After that, everything went blurry.

A week after the funeral, I moved in with my aunt. The spare bedroom smelled like cedar and fabric softener—nothing like home.