My daughter stepped forward.
Before handing her the certificate, the teacher added into the microphone,
“Melissa’s dress was handmade by her father.”
The gym erupted in applause.
Melissa beamed.
My chest tightened—but this time for a completely different reason.
That woman had tried to humiliate us.
Instead, something beautiful had happened.
For the first time since Jenna died, I felt like I had truly done something right.
After the ceremony
Several parents approached us.
One mother gently touched the edge of the dress.
“This is gorgeous. Did you really make it?”
I nodded.
Another father smiled.
“You should sell these.”
I laughed.
“I barely know what I’m doing.”
Later that afternoon Melissa and I stopped for ice cream on the way home.
She talked nonstop about the ceremony.
“Do you think Brian will come back to school tomorrow?”
“Probably.”
As she chatted, I looked again at the dress.
It had turned out better than I ever expected.
But another thought crept into my mind.
Next year Melissa would start first grade—and her private school tuition wasn’t cheap.
When Jenna was alive, we managed together.
