Sophie laughed—a sound Richard hadn’t heard in a restaurant since before the accident. Before hospitals. Before wheelchairs and long nights of silent tears.
“You’re really good,” Sophie whispered.
Naomi chuckled. “You’re leading.”
“I am?”
“Absolutely.”
Sophie straightened, proud.
Richard felt something tighten painfully in his chest.
He had spent millions on specialists. On private schools. On equipment imported from Europe. He had rebuilt entire companies after market crashes—but he had not known how to rebuild his daughter’s confidence.
And here she was, rebuilding it in the middle of a dining room.
Halfway through the song, Sophie stumbled slightly. A brace caught against the floor. Richard stepped forward instinctively.
But Naomi was quicker.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured.
Sophie steadied.
“Don’t let go,” Sophie whispered urgently.
“I won’t,” Naomi promised.
Richard stopped.
He realized he had been holding his breath.
When the music ended, the applause started slowly—one pair of hands, then another. Soon the entire room was clapping.
Even Mr. Whitmore.
Sophie beamed.
She turned toward her father, cheeks flushed. “Daddy, did you see? I danced!”
He swallowed hard.
“I saw,” he managed.