“Mom?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Maybe… maybe we should just go home?”
My heart shattered completely. I wrapped my arms around her, gripping her until my knuckles ached. “Let’s just rest for one more minute, my love,” I pleaded softly. “Just one minute.”
Before I could figure out how to salvage the night, a group of women swept past us, a cloud of expensive floral perfume announcing their arrival. At the front of the pack was Brenda, the undisputed queen of the PTA. She was perfectly coiffed, perfectly dressed, and possessed a smile that was entirely hollow.
Brenda paused, noticing us huddled on the mats. Her eyes swept over me, and then landed critically on Maya’s feet protruding from her formal gown. Her expression softened into something that looked entirely like condescension.
“Oh, Jill. Poor thing,” Brenda said, projecting her voice just loud enough for the other mothers to hear. “I was so surprised to see you here. Events for complete families are always so dreadfully hard on children from… well, you know. Incomplete homes.”
I stiffened. The blood roared in my ears.
“Excuse me?” I said, my voice coming out sharper and colder than I intended.
Brenda offered a thin, patronizing smile. “I’m just saying, dear, maybe some events aren’t meant for everyone. This is a father-daughter dance. It highlights what she doesn’t have. And those shoes…” Brenda let out a soft, tsk-tsk sound. “Well, it just shows she’s lacking a man’s guidance for the dress code tonight.”
“My daughter is not lacking a father,” I snapped, standing up so quickly Brenda took a step back. “Her father was Staff Sergeant Marcus Thorne. He gave his life defending this country. And those shoes were painted by his own hands.”
Brenda blinked, momentarily caught off guard, while the mothers behind her suddenly became incredibly interested in their cell phones.
“Well,” Brenda recovered, adjusting her pearl necklace. “I meant no offense. I just think she looks a bit out of place. It’s a shame, really.”
The music shifted again. It was an old Motown track—the exact song Marcus used to blast in our kitchen while spinning Maya around by her arms until they both collapsed in dizzy laughter.
Maya pressed her face into my hip, hiding her tears. “I wish he was here, Mom. Everyone is staring at me.”
