I’m thirty-one. My daughter, Sita, is eight.
Her father is… no one.
He is a name on a birth certificate. A face I saw once in a doctor’s waiting room, hand pressed to his forehead, saying, “I can’t do this,” before walking out and never coming back.
He has never met her. Never sent a birthday card. Never clicked “like” on a photo I’ve posted. For eight years, I’ve been mom and dad and everything in between.
I’ve fixed bikes with YouTube tutorials. I’ve learned soccer terms I will never use again. I’ve cut off ponytails that wouldn’t untangle and carried her through 2 a.m. fever dreams.
People say things like, “She doesn’t need a dad if she has you.”
They mean well.
They are wrong.
There is a place in Sita’s heart shaped like a father. I have tried my best to fill the room around it with laughter and love and stability, but that empty space is still there.
Some holes you can’t patch with extra blankets.
You just try to keep the wind out.
The day she brought the flyer home, she practically bounced into the kitchen.
“Mommy, look!” she said, slamming it down on the table. “We’re having a dance at school!”
Bold letters at the top: JEFFERSON ELEMENTARY ANNUAL DADDY-DAUGHTER DANCE.
Her eyes sparkled.
“All my friends are going. Can I go too? Please? I’ll wear my sparkly shoes. And we have to practice dancing so I don’t fall.”
My heart did that weird thing where it breaks and melts at the same time.
The flyer might as well have had another line printed across the bottom:
Not for girls like you.
I tried to smile.
“That looks fun,” I said. “Let me… call the school and see how it works, okay?”
She nodded, already chattering about playlists and hairstyles.
I went into the laundry room so she wouldn’t see my hands shake and dialed the number from the flyer.
“Jefferson Elementary, this is Connie, how can I help you?”
“Hi, this is Sita Patterson’s mom,” I said. “I’m calling about the daddy-daughter dance.”
“Oh, yes!” she said. “It’s such a special tradition here. The girls love it.”
“Is there… any flexibility?” I asked. “Like, can moms go? Or grandfathers? Uncles? Sita doesn’t have a father and—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Patterson,” she interrupted. “It’s specifically for fathers and daughters. If we start making exceptions, it wouldn’t be fair to the other families.”
I gripped the edge of the washer.