Grief doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like carefully pressed dresses, shoes with tiny bows, and a little girl holding her hope together as neatly as she folds her favorite pink socks.
“Katie, do you need help?” I called from the hallway.
There was no answer at first.
When I peeked inside, she was sitting on her bed, staring at her reflection. She wore the dress Keith had picked out months ago—the one she loved to spin in.
“Mom?” she asked softly. “Does it still count if Dad can’t go with me?”
My chest tightened. I sat beside her, brushing a curl from her face. “Of course it counts, sweetheart. Your dad would want you to shine tonight.”
She thought about that, then nodded slowly. “I want to honor him. Even if it’s just us.”
She handed me her shoes. “I miss Daddy. He used to tie them.”
I knelt and tied them the way he always did. “He’d say you look beautiful. And he’d be right.”
She smiled—just a little—and pinned her “Daddy’s Girl” badge over her heart.
Downstairs, I grabbed my coat, ignoring the stack of bills and the casseroles left by kind strangers. At the door, Katie paused, glancing back down the hallway as if, just for a second, she might see him walking toward us.
The drive was quiet. One of Keith’s favorite songs played softly on the radio. I kept my eyes on the road, blinking back tears as I watched Katie mouth the lyrics in the reflection of the window.
Outside the school, the parking lot was full. Fathers laughed, lifting their daughters into the air. The joy around us felt almost too sharp.
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