Sophie talked the entire meal. About school. About how she used to love ballet. About how she stopped after the accident because “ballerinas don’t wear metal legs.”
Naomi listened.
“Who told you that?” she asked softly.
“No one,” Sophie admitted. “I just thought it.”
Naomi reached across the table.
“My cousin dances in a wheelchair,” she said. “She says dance isn’t about legs. It’s about rhythm. And courage.”
Sophie’s eyes widened.
Richard listened, silent.
Later that night, after Naomi left, Sophie looked up at him.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Why did everyone look mad when I asked her?”
He hesitated.
“Sometimes people don’t understand what they’re seeing,” he said carefully.
“Because she’s Black?” Sophie asked simply.
The directness stunned him.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded slowly. “Some people have… prejudices.”
“That’s silly,” Sophie said. “She’s nice.”
Richard felt the truth land heavily inside him.
In the weeks that followed, Naomi and Sophie met often. Sometimes for dinner. Sometimes at the park. Naomi showed her videos of adaptive dance groups. She found a local studio that offered inclusive classes.