“Mom?” Maya asked softly, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “Does it still count? If Dad can’t go to the dance with me?”
I walked over and sat beside her on the bed, gently tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Of course it counts, my sweet girl. Your dad would want you to shine tonight. So that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
Maya looked down at her bright, chaotic sneakers, swinging her feet slightly. “I want to wear our magic shoes. Even if it looks weird with the dress. I want him to know I remembered.”
I swallowed the heavy, jagged lump rising in my throat. I remembered the day Marcus received his deployment orders. He had held Maya in the kitchen and made a vow that now haunted the hallways of our home: “I’ll take you to every father-daughter dance, Maya-bug. Every single one. I promise.”
He had made that promise. Now, it was up to me to somehow keep it.
“They look perfect,” I told her, my voice trembling only a little. “He’d say you look like a superstar. And he’d be right.”
She offered a small, brave smile—a fleeting glimpse of the joyful girl she used to be. She carefully pinned her “Daddy’s Girl” ribbon over her heart, took my hand, and we walked out the door.
The drive to the elementary school was suffocatingly quiet. The radio played softly in the background, filling the silence we couldn’t bridge. I kept my eyes fixed on the road, aggressively blinking away tears whenever I caught Maya’s reflection in the passenger window. She was staring out at the passing streetlights, her hands resting on her colorful sneakers.
The school parking lot was overflowing. Cars lined the curbs, and the crisp evening air was filled with the deep, rumbling laughter of fathers lifting their little girls out of car seats, fixing their ties, and holding their hands.
Their pure, uncomplicated happiness felt almost violent to witness. I squeezed Maya’s hand as we walked toward the glowing entrance.
