It had always been just the two of us—my dad and me. My mother died the day I was born, leaving Johnny, my father, to become everything at once: cook, chauffeur, cheerleader, and protector. He packed my lunches every morning, flipped pancakes on Sundays without fail, and sometime around second grade, he even taught himself how to braid hair by watching YouTube tutorials late at night. His job as the janitor at my school meant I grew up hearing exactly what people thought about it: whispered comments in hallways, snide jokes, and the casual cruelty of kids who didn’t understand.

Dad believed deeply in the dignity of honest work, in taking care of things others overlooked, and I believed him too. By the time I reached sophomore year, I had made a quiet promise to myself: one day I would make him so proud that the cruel whispers no longer mattered. Then everything changed. Last year, he was diagnosed with cancer. Even after the diagnosis, he kept going to work as long as the doctors would allow, often longer than they wanted him to, sometimes leaning against the supply closet, shoulders slumped, exhaustion etched in every movement.