I’m Sophie, 17, and when my mom passed, my dad, Paul, returned at her funeral. Their divorce when I was eight left me with Mom’s stories of him as a trucker lost to bars. Yet, his hug by her coffin was genuine. “Hey, darling,” he said, placing lilies for Mom. Someone asked him to move his truck, clogging the lot. “One minute, I’m with my daughter,” he said, eyes on me. I’d missed him, and soon, he urged me to live with him, reshaping my life.
I resisted leaving Mom’s house, full of her presence, but Paul knew my leg condition, causing a limp and wheelchair use since age six, meant I needed care. His modest home was untidy but felt safe. Paul tried hard, learning to braid my hair online and giving me his room with a new bed. But his nightly exits baffled me. Mom’s tales of his bar habits lingered, and I assumed he was out drinking when he left after I slept, my heart heavy.
One day, I got home from school crying. A note on our locked door said, “Keys under the planter, back soon—Dad.” I frowned, picturing him at a tavern by afternoon. That night, I shared my prom pain. “No one wants me,” I said, hurt by classmates’ snubs over my limp. “I’m not going, Dad.” I hid my tears, but Paul’s face showed purpose. He soon gifted me a radiant prom dress. On prom night, his truck arrived, and he emerged in a tux. “Let’s go,” he said, setting up my wheelchair.
He wheeled me into prom, drawing gazes. Paul carried me, swaying to the music, making me laugh and feel normal. “You’re my hero, Dad,” I told friends, teary. Parents praised Paul, and he shared our story, not expecting a miracle. We drove home, chuckling, and he tucked me in before leaving. I later learned he worked nights at a care facility, plus trucking, saving for my leg surgery, not bar-hopping as Mom thought.
A doctor had said surgery could help me walk, despite doubts. Mom’s mistrust fueled their divorce, but Paul saved for me. The next morning, he found a mailbox package: “Dad of the Year,” with a $10,000 check and note: “For your daughter’s surgery. Be with her evenings. From prom parents.” He cried, telling me. “We’re there, Sophie!” I hugged him, stunned. The surgery, with his savings and the check, succeeded, and I walked freely.
Paul quit his night job, and before my science scholarship, he taught me to cook, swim, and run. “Live big,” he said. His love was my superpower, making prom a turning point. A father’s devotion can transform lives, and Paul proved it.
