My classmates were making fun of me because I’m the daughter of a janitor — but at the end of the year ball, my words made them cry
Then people started to applaud.
Sincere and noisy applause that filled the room.
My father seemed to want to disappear.
“I am proud of you. »
I came down from the little scene and I approached him.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” he replied in a hoarse voice.
“I’m proud of you,” I said.
He shook his head.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered. “You didn’t have to tell them. »
We didn’t do slow or anything, but we stood together on the side of the room.
“I know,” I replied. “I wanted to. »
We stayed.
We didn’t dance a slow or anything, but we stayed up together in a corner of the room.
Some people came to see us.
“Thank you for all you do, sir. »
“The gym is great. »
The music resounded behind us when the doors of the room closed.
“I’m really sorry for everything.”
He kept saying, “I’m just doing my job,” “Nothing” and “Don’t worry.”
Every few minutes, he gave me a look.
I nodded, as if to say, “Yes, it’s really happening”
Later, as the night merged with the bad music, sweat and cheap perfume, we slipped away.
The music resounded behind us when the doors of the gym closed.
The tears came to my eyes.
Outside, it was cool.
We walked to the Corolla.
Halfway there, he stopped.
“Your mother would have loved it,” he said.
The tears came to my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I replied.
He sighed and leaned against the car.
He frowned. “Why? »
“For… having been ashamed,” I replied. “For acting as if your work was something to hide. For walking behind you. »
He sighed and leaned against the car.
“I never needed you to be proud of my job,” he said. “I just wanted you to be proud of yourself. »
The next morning, my phone was boiling.
“I’m working on it,” I replied.
He smiled.
“I see that. »
The next morning, my phone was boiling.
SMS. Private messages. Missed calls.
“Hi, I’m really sorry about the jokes I made. »
I looked up from my phone to my father in the kitchen.
“Your speech last night was really great. »
“Your father is a legend. »
Someone had posted a picture of him in the gym, always with the garbage bag in hand.
The legend said, “The real MVP. »
I looked up from my phone to my father in the kitchen.
He hummed while preparing his coffee in his chipped cup, already dressed in his work polo.
I approached and hugged him.
He caught me staring at him.
“What? “He asked me.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I was just thinking my father became famous. »
He laughed.
“Yeah, that’s it. I’m always the one we call when someone throws up in the hallway. »
I approached and hugged him.
“It’s a tough job,” I said. But someone has to do it well. »
He gave me a little pat on the arm.
“Thankfully I’m stubborn,” he said.
