My daughter is my world. I raised her alone with love, grit, and everything I had. I never missed a milestone. Seated in the front row at her graduation ceremony, I was the proudest dad alive… until she asked me to leave. Her reason cut deep… but I knew I had to fight for her again.
Fatherhood isn’t a role—it’s a heartbeat outside your body. I raised my daughter, Isabel, alone. No guidebook, no backup, no weekends off. Just me, her tiny hands in mine, and a heart that only beat when she smiled. She was my pride and joy… and I swore nothing would ever break us.
I learned how to braid because she loved princess hairstyles. I waited through every single ballet class in my beat-up Honda with coffee that tasted like guilt. I skipped meals to afford her birthday cakes. And when she got that college acceptance letter? God, I cried like someone had just handed me the moon.
And then, I was in the front row seat, wearing my best shirt, ironed twice, palms sweating around a crinkled bouquet of white roses, and my heart ready to burst. I’d even practiced the dumb little cheer I was gonna yell when they called her name.
My little princess was all grown up. God help me, I was so damn proud.
Her name was third to last, and I swear every breath felt heavier, just thinking of that little girl who once wobbled off her bike and refused to cry until I looked away.
