I pulled her close again. Pressed my lips to her hair.
"You don't have to apologize," I whispered. "Not ever. Not for this."
"I know you wanted to go. I know you bought that dress?—"
"It's just a dress, baby. It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me." Her voice was small. "I wanted to be brave enough. For you."
My throat tightened. Thirteen years old and already carrying guilt that wasn't hers to carry.
"You are brave," I said. "The bravest person I know. And if you want to stay home, we stay home. No guilt. No apologies. Just us."
I pulled her close again and just held her.
She nodded against my shoulder. Sniffled.
I held my daughter in her pink dress and felt the weight of every failure, every absence, every moment I couldn't fill the space her father had left behind.
Then there was a knock at the door.
I wasn't expecting anyone.
I wiped my own eyes quickly, smoothed my dress, and crossed the apartment. Probably a neighbor. Or Millie, checking in.
I opened the door.
Shane stood in the hallway.
He was wearing a navy suit, white shirt open at the collar, looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine. In his hands were two bouquets of flowers. One with red roses. One with pink tulips.
My brain refused to catch up with what I was seeing.
"Shane?"
His eyes found mine, then traveled downward. The dress. The heels. The hair I'd actually managed to curl. He went still, and I felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, warm on my skin.
"Maya." His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. "You look... amazing."
"What are you doing here?"
"Where's Zoe?"
Before I could answer, I heard footsteps behind me. Zoe had come out of her room, drawn by the voices. She stood in the hallway in her pink dress, face tear-streaked, mascara smudged, clutching a wad of tissues.
Shane's expression shifted. Understanding. Then something harder. Determination.
He stepped past me into the apartment. Walked straight to Zoe. And then, without hesitation, he dropped to one knee in front of her.
Zoe stared at him, eyes wide.
Shane held out the pink tulips.
"Hey, Zoe." His voice was gentle. Steady. "I know I'm not your dad. But I was wondering... would you like to go to the dance with me?"
Zoe's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Are you serious?"
