The big day arrived sooner than I expected.
I was nervous from the moment I woke up.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Dad looked nervous too, though he tried his best to hide it.
Backstage, he adjusted the costume shirt my ballet teacher had convinced him to wear.
“I look ridiculous,” he muttered.
“You do,” I agreed.
He laughed.
“Thanks for the support.”
“You’re welcome.”
The auditorium was packed.
Parents, teachers, students, and grandparents filled every seat.
When our turn finally arrived, I wondered whether Dad might back out.
Instead, he squeezed my shoulder.
“Ready?”
I nodded.
Together, we walked onto the stage.
The music began.
For the next several minutes, Dad gave it everything he had.
It wasn’t graceful.
It wasn’t elegant.
It definitely wasn’t professional.
The entire school watched as a huge tattooed biker awkwardly tried to follow my ballet routine.
Everyone laughed—but never in a cruel way.
Even I couldn’t stop laughing.
At one point, he spun in the wrong direction and nearly crashed into a curtain.
The audience erupted.
Dad laughed right along with them.
When the routine ended, the entire auditorium broke into applause.
Some people even stood up.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
It was the happiest I had felt in months.
That night, I fell asleep replaying the entire performance in my head.
I remembered how Dad and I danced together as if we were the only two people in the world.
I remembered Mom sitting in the audience with tears in her eyes.
I remembered the thunderous cheers when we finished.
For a little while, I forgot about hospitals.
I forgot about treatments.
I forgot about cancer.
