My mom died when I was born, so my dad, Michael, became everything. He packed my lunches before work, made pancakes every Sunday, and even taught himself how to braid my hair from online videos when I was little.
He worked as the school janitor at the same place I studied. And that meant years of hearing whispers:
“That’s the janitor’s daughter… her dad cleans our bathrooms.”
I never cried in front of anyone. Only at home.
Dad always knew anyway. He’d set dinner down and say, “You know what I think about people who make themselves feel big by putting others down?”
I’d sniff and ask, “What?”
“Not much, sweetheart… not much.”
And somehow, that was enough.
He taught me that honest work mattered. I believed him. By sophomore year, I made a quiet promise to myself—I’d make him proud enough to silence every cruel comment.
Then everything changed.
Last year, Dad was diagnosed with cancer. He kept working longer than he should have, brushing it off whenever I looked worried.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he’d say. “I’m okay.”
But he wasn’t.
Still, he held on to one hope.