No one said anything, but a few parents gave me the sideways glance people reserve for broken vending machines or men asking for spare change.
I kept my eyes on Lily, who walked into that studio like she belonged there.
If she fit in, I could handle everything else.
For months, every evening after work, our living room became her stage.
I’d push the shaky coffee table against the wall while my mom sat on the couch, cane resting beside her, clapping slightly off-beat.
Lily stood in the center, socked feet sliding, face serious enough to make me nervous.
“Dad, watch my arms,” she’d say.
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