I’m Emma, 17, and after my mom’s death, my dad, Mike, stepped back into my life at her funeral. Their divorce when I was six left me with Mom’s tales of him as a bar-hopping trucker. But his embrace by her coffin felt warm. “Hey, sweetie,” he said, laying a wreath. A guest asked him to move his truck, blocking cars. “Just a sec, I’m with my kid,” he said, focused on me. I’d longed for him, and soon, he insisted I move into his home, shifting my world.
I clung to Mom’s house, our memory haven, but Mike knew I couldn’t stay alone with my leg condition, which left me limping or in a wheelchair since age seven. His small house was messy but welcoming. Mike struggled, learning to style my hair from videos and giving me his room with a cozy bed. His nightly absences confused me. Mom’s words about his drinking rang in my head, and I pictured him at pubs when he left after I slept, wondering why.
One day, I came home from school sobbing. A note on our locked door read, “Keys under the doormat, back soon—Dad.” I scowled, thinking he was at a bar by noon. That night, I told him about prom. “No one asked me,” I said, stung by classmates’ laughs at my limp. “I’m skipping it, Dad.” I hid my tears, but Mike looked determined. He soon gave me a gorgeous prom dress. On prom night, his truck roared up, and he stepped out in a suit. “You’re my date,” he said, readying my wheelchair.
He rolled me into prom, all eyes on us. Mike lifted me, dancing to the music, making me laugh and forget my struggles. “You’re my superhero, Dad,” I told friends, emotional. Parents surrounded Mike, praising him, and he shared our journey, unaware it would lead to a miracle. We giggled driving home, and he tucked me in before slipping out. I later learned he worked nights at a senior center, plus trucking, saving for my leg surgery, not drinking as Mom believed.
A doctor had promised surgery could help me walk, despite skepticism. Mom’s distrust led to their split, but Mike kept working for me. The next day, he found a mailbox package: “Dad of the Year,” with a $10,000 check and note: “For your daughter’s surgery. Stay home evenings. From prom folks.” He wept, telling me. “We made it, Emma!” I cried, grateful. The surgery, with his savings and the gift, worked, and I walked unaided.
Mike quit his night job, and before my art scholarship took me away, he taught me to bake, dance, and bike. “Live free,” he said. His love was my strength, turning prom into a life-changer. A father’s heart can work wonders, and Mike showed me how.
