I’d see it every time I looked up.
I stared at Dad’s handwriting and let myself believe, just for one quiet second, that I could carry the rest of senior year on my own.
I didn’t know then how fast my stepfamily would stop pretending.
***
A few weeks after we buried my dad, our principal stood on the auditorium stage and announced a full-ride scholarship. One essay. One prompt.
“What belief has shaped the way you choose to live, and who taught it to you?”
I didn’t know then how fast my stepfamily would stop pretending.
I knew it might be my only chance.
I was going to write about my dad, Brandon.
***
I started that same night. My laptop, the one I temporarily shared with Brittany because Natalie said “sisters share” after my stepsister broke hers, sat open on the kitchen table while I typed.
I knew it might be my only chance.
I wrote about him driving me to school during his final months of illness when he could barely cross the kitchen without stopping to breathe. Dad even sat through my debate competitions. I also wrote about the Sunday pancakes he burned every single week because he refused to watch the stove while the pan was hot.
