I’m Lily, 17, and when my mom died, my dad, Jack, reentered my life at her funeral. Their divorce when I was seven left me with Mom’s stories of him as a reckless trucker, always at bars. Yet, his hug by Mom’s coffin felt sincere. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, placing roses for her. Someone asked him to move his truck, parked awkwardly. “One minute, I’m with my girl,” he replied, smiling at me. I’d missed him, and after the funeral, he insisted I live with him, changing everything.
I didn’t want to leave Mom’s house, full of our memories, but Jack was firm. My leg condition, causing a limp and wheelchair use since age five, meant I needed him. His small home was cluttered but cozy. Jack tried hard, learning to tie my hair via tutorials and giving me his room with a plush bed. But his nightly disappearances worried me. Mom’s words about his bar habits echoed, and I wondered where he went after I slept, assuming the worst.
One afternoon, I got off the school bus crying. A note on our locked door said, “Keys under the rug, back soon—Dad.” I frowned, thinking he was drinking at 3 p.m. That night, I told him about prom. “No one wants me as a date,” I said, hurt by classmates’ rejections over my limp. “I’m not going, Dad.” I hid my tears, but Jack’s face showed resolve. Days later, he gave me a stunning prom dress. On prom night, his truck pulled up, and he emerged in a tux. “Let’s dance,” he said, setting up my wheelchair.
He wheeled me into the prom, eyes on us. Jack carried me onto the dance floor, spinning me to the music. I laughed, feeling whole, my disability forgotten. “You’re my everything, Dad,” I told friends, crying happily. Parents praised Jack, and he shared our story, not knowing it would spark a gift. We laughed driving home, and he tucked me in before leaving again. I later learned he worked nights at a care home, alongside trucking, saving for my leg surgery. Mom thought he partied, but he was working for me.
A doctor once said surgery could help me walk, despite others’ doubts. Jack and Mom split over her mistrust, but he never stopped saving. The morning after prom, Jack found a mailbox package: “Dad of the Year,” with a $10,000 check and a note: “For your daughter’s surgery. Be with her evenings. From prom parents.” He cried, showing me. “We’re set, Lily!” I hugged him, amazed. The surgery, funded by his savings and the check, succeeded, and I walked freely.
Jack quit his night job, and with months before my engineering scholarship took me away, he taught me to cook, skate, and run. “Live fully,” he said. His love made me see him as my superhero, turning a prom night into a life-changing gift. A father’s devotion can rewrite any story, and Jack proved it.
