My dad was the school janitor, and my classmates made fun of him my whole life. When he died before my graduation party, I sewed my dress out of his shirts so I could wear it with me. Everyone laughed when I walked in. They weren’t laughing anymore when my principal finished speaking.
It was always just the two of us… Dad and me.
My mother died giving birth to me, so my father, Johnny, took care of everything. He made me lunch before his shift, baked pancakes every Sunday without fail, and, back in second grade, learned to braid hair from YouTube videos.
My mother died giving birth to me, so my father, Johnny, took care of everything.
He was the janitor at the same school I attended, which meant years of hearing exactly what people thought about it: “That’s the janitor’s daughter… Her dad cleans our bathrooms.”
I never cried about it in front of anyone. I kept it to myself.
Dad always knew. He would put a plate in front of me and say, “Do you know what I think of people who aggrandize themselves by making others feel small?”
“Yes?” I looked up and my eyes sparkled.
—Not much, darling… not much.
And he always helped in some way.
“His father cleans our bathrooms.”
Dad told me that working honestly was something to be proud of. I believed him. And back in my second year, I made him a quiet promise: I was going to make him proud enough to forget all those nasty comments.
Last year, Dad was diagnosed with cancer. He kept working until the doctors wouldn’t let him, more than they wanted, to be honest.
Some nights I’d find him leaning against the supply cupboard, looking more exhausted than usual. He’d straighten up as soon as he saw me and say, “Don’t look at me like that, honey. I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t well, and we both knew it.
Last year, Dad was diagnosed with cancer.
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