Dads, moms, grandparents, guardians, and community volunteers—all welcome.
The Iron Warriors have an official partnership with the school.
There’s a waiting list of men wanting a spot on that gym floor every year.
Robert still picks Sita up.
She’s twelve now.
She wears jeans more than dresses. She rolls her eyes at my jokes. She has opinions about everything.
But she still lays her dress out on her bed days before the dance and texts Robert pictures asking, “Does this match your tie?”
Last year, as he pinned her corsage on, she asked him:
“Why do you keep coming back? I mean… I know I’m awesome, but… you don’t have to. I’m not your kid.”
He paused, fingers stilled on the little band around her wrist.
“I had a daughter,” he said quietly. “Her name was Mia. She was six when we lost her. Leukemia.”
My breath caught.
“I never got to do this with her,” he continued. “Never got to see her in a dress, or embarrass her on the dance floor, or argue about hairstyles. For a long time, I thought that part of my life was just… gone.”
He glanced at me over her head.