He talked about our kitchen dance lessons when I was small — the rug pushed aside, the laughter when we stepped on each other’s feet. He spoke about what the past few years had required of both of us.
“My granddaughter is the reason I am still here,” he said. “After my stroke, when everything felt hard, she showed up every single day with patience and strength.”
Then he smiled the way he always did.
“And tonight I finally kept a promise I made years ago. I told her I would be the most handsome date at prom.”
Half the room was wiping their eyes.
He held out his hand toward me.
“You ready, sweetheart?”
Amber quietly helped guide his wheelchair back across the floor toward me, then stepped aside without a word.
The DJ played a slow song. And we rolled onto the dance floor together.
Just Like the Kitchen Floor
