After my parents split and my mom passed away, I had to move in with my dad—the man she always warned me about. “He’ll never grow up,” she used to say. “A hopeless loser.” So yeah, I didn’t exactly expect much.
Living with him was… odd. He’d sneak out late at night sometimes. I didn’t ask. I didn’t care. I was still grieving, still adjusting, and honestly, still stuck—literally. After the accident, I was in a wheelchair, and even though surgery could change everything, it wasn’t something we could afford.
Prom was coming up. But for me, it felt like just another reminder of everything I couldn’t have. No date. No dress. No dignity. I figured I’d stay home, maybe watch old movies and try not to cry.
Then my dad knocked on my door, holding a corsage he probably picked up from the gas station, and said, “Put on something nice. You’re not missing prom.”
I stared at him. Seriously? But I got dressed. And we went.
That night, he rolled me in like we owned the place. He cracked jokes, made everyone laugh, and somehow—somehow—he got me out on the dance floor. I didn’t feel invisible anymore. I felt seen. Alive. Like a normal teenager again.
The next morning, he walked in holding an envelope, eyes wide.
It had been stuffed in our mailbox.
Inside? A check for $10,000. And a note that said: “Dad of the Year.”
He sat down beside me, stunned, then smiled.
“I think I know who sent this,” he whispered.
And the look in his eyes told me: whatever late-night secrets he’d been keeping… they’d all been for me.