We were always both… Dad and me.
My mother died giving birth to me, so my father, Johnny, took care of everything. He was preparing my lunches before going to work, making pancakes every Sunday without fail, and towards the CE1, he learned alone how to braid the hair through YouTube videos.
My mother died giving birth to me, so my father, Johnny, took care of everything.
He was a janitor in the same school as me, which means I spent years hearing exactly what people thought of it: “She’s the concierge’s daughter… His father cleans our toilets.”
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I never cried in front of anyone. I was saving this for the house.
Dad always knew it anyway. He put a plate in front of me and said, “You know what I think of people who make themselves tall making others feel small? »
“Not what? »
“Not much, my dear… not much. »
And it always, one way or another, helped.
“His father cleans our toilet. »
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Dad told me that an honest job is something we could be proud of. I believed him. And towards my second year of university, I made a silent promise: I was going to make him proud enough that he forgets all these unpleasant comments.
Last year, Dad found out he had cancer. He continued to work as long as the doctors allowed him, longer than they would have liked, honestly.
Some nights I found him leaning against the supply cupboard, looking even more exhausted.
He stood up as soon as he saw me and said, “Don’t look at me like that, my dear. I’m fine. I’m fine. »
But he wasn’t well, and we both knew it.
Last year, we diagnosed daddy with cancer.
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One thing kept coming up in Dad’s words, sitting at the kitchen table after his work: “I just have to stand until the prom. And then, until you graduate. I want to see you dress and walk through this door like you’re the queen of the world, my princess. »
“You’ll see more than that, Dad,” I always replied.
Quelques mois avant le bal, il a perdu son combat contre le cancer et est décédé avant que je puisse arriver à l’hôpital.
I found out as I stood in the hallway of the school, my backpack on my shoulders.
I remember noticing that linoleum looked exactly like the one Dad was passing through the mop, and then I have little in mind after that.
A few months before the end of the year ball, he lost his battle with cancer.
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***
The week after the funeral, I moved in with my aunt. The guest room smelled like cedar and softening it, and didn’t look anything like my house.
The end-of-year ball season came suddenly, taking over all the conversations. The girls at school compared their designer dresses and shared screenshots of clothes that cost more than a month of my father’s salary.
I felt completely disconnected from all of this. The end of the year ball was supposed to be our moment: I leave the house while my father took too many photos.
Without him, I didn’t know what it was.
The ball was supposed to be our moment.
One thing kept coming up in Dad’s words, sitting at the kitchen table after his work: “I just have to stand until the prom. And then, until you graduate. I want to see you dress and walk through this door like you’re the queen of the world, my princess. »
“You’ll see more than that, Dad,” I always replied.
A few months before the ball, he lost his battle with cancer and died before I could get to the hospital.
I found out as I stood in the hallway of the school, my backpack on my shoulders.
I remember noticing that linoleum looked exactly like the one Dad was passing through the mop, and then I have little in mind after that.
A few months before the end of the year ball, he lost his battle with cancer.
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***
The week after the funeral, I moved in with my aunt. The guest room smelled like cedar and softening it, and didn’t look anything like my house.
The end-of-year ball season came suddenly, taking over all the conversations. The girls at school compared their designer dresses and shared screenshots of clothes that cost more than a month of my father’s salary.
I felt completely disconnected from all of this. The end of the year ball was supposed to be our moment: I leave the house while my father took too many photos.
Without him, I didn’t know what it was.
The ball was supposed to be our moment.
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One evening, I sat down with the box containing his belongings that the hospital had sent home: his wallet, his watch with cracked glass and, at the bottom, carefully folded as he always folded everything, his work shirts.
Blues, greys and the washed-out green one that I remembered for years. We used to joke about saying that his closet only contained shirts. He said that a man who knows what he needs doesn’t need much else.
I sat there, a shirt in my hand for a long time. Then the idea came to me, clear and sudden, as if she was waiting for me to be ready to receive her: if Dad could not be at the ball, I could take her with me.
My aunt didn’t think I was crazy, which I really enjoyed.
We used to joke about the fact that his closet only contained shirts.
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“I can barely sew, Aunt Hilda,” I said.
“I know. I’ll teach you. »
That weekend, we spread Dad’s shirts on the kitchen table, with his old man needed to sew between us, and we got to work. It took longer than expected.
I cut the fabric wrongly twice and had to undo a whole part late at night and start over. Aunt Hilda stayed by my side and did not say a discouraging word. She just guided my hands and told me when to slow down.
