I never intended to be a single father. I made the decision to fight for it as if it were the only thing keeping me alive because, to be honest, it was. It was the life that remained after everything else fell apart.
In order to maintain a little apartment that never smells like us, I work two jobs. The smell of other people’s dinners—curry, onions, burnt toast, whatever the neighbors are cooking—remains in the air even after I clean the counters, mop the floors, and open every window I can. It feels like it belongs in a different planet because the walls are thin enough for me to occasionally hear someone laughing next door.
I work with the city sanitation crew during the day. I ride the garbage truck some mornings, throwing bags that leak mysterious liquids and dashed hopes. On other days, I’m down in muddy holes assisting with overflow issues and broken mains that no one wants to look at, much less fix. It is labor-intensive. The work is noisy. Even after you’ve cleaned your hands, the work remains on you.
I clean downtown business buildings at night. Glass walls, quiet floors, pricey carpet, the pungent scent of lemon cleanser, and the prosperity of others. I push a broom past conference rooms that are empty and have chairs that are more expensive than my couch. As I unload bins full of papers that someone didn’t want anybody else to view, screensavers bounce across enormous displays.
The paycheck arrives in my account, remains there for a day, and then vanishes. rent. groceries. MetroCard. utilities. The calculations are never accurate.
Even so, Lily, my six-year-old daughter, makes everything seem nearly worthwhile.
My motivation is her. She recalls the specifics that my tired mind forgets, like who gets to bring snacks to class, which plush animal is “out” this week, the name of the new ballet dance, and who made fun of her during recess. With a mind that still thinks life should be bright, she keeps our small world together.
My mother also resides with us. Despite her limited mobility and cane-assisted gait, she manages to make our apartment feel more like home than a place of survival. With cautious fingertips, she braids Lily’s hair. She prepares oatmeal with the seriousness of a chef presenting a work of art, adding cinnamon and sliced bananas as if it were a five-star breakfast.
What about Lily? Lily uses ballet to communicate.
For her, it’s more than just an after-school activity. She speaks it. She unconsciously points her toes when she’s anxious. When she’s joyful, she laughs as if she’s created joy and spins about till she stumbles sideways. After spending too much time underground, watching her perform is like breathing fresh air.
She noticed a crookedly taped flyer above the laundromat’s damaged change machine last spring. “Beginner Ballet” in large looping letters, pink silhouettes, and glitter. She was staring at it so intently that she wouldn’t have blinked if the dryers had caught fire.
Then she gave me that look that children have when they realize something is meant just for them.
My stomach dropped when I saw the price. Those figures have nothing to do with my existence.
“Please, Daddy,” she muttered.
She repeated it, but with a lower tone, as if speaking too loudly would cause the dream to fade. “My class is that.”
I heard myself respond before I could convince myself otherwise. “All right. We’ll carry it out.
That evening, I pulled an old envelope from a drawer, scribbled “LILY – BALLET” across the front in big marker, and began giving it every handful of change and crumpled bill I had. I didn’t eat lunch. I told my stomach to quit whining and drank scorched coffee from our dying machine. On most days, Lily’s dream took precedence over her hunger.
The studio had the appearance of a cupcake’s inside. The lobby was filled with moms wearing leggings and men wearing clean clothes that smelled like good soap. There were pink walls, glittering decals, and inspiring slogans that curled along the mirrors: “Dance with your heart,” “Leap and the net will appear.” I was fresh from work and had a subtle banana peel and disinfectant smell. I noticed the sidelong glances, but no one said. When strangers ask for extra cash or vending machines break, the good people save.
I continued to look at Lily. She strode into the studio as if it were her birthplace.
I could manage anything if she fit in.
Our living room served as her rehearsal space for several months. While my mother sat on the couch with her cane leaning next to her, I moved the unsteady coffee table toward the wall and continued to smile and clap offbeat. With her stocking feet sliding on the floor and a solemn expression that nearly made me giggle, Lily stood in the middle.
She would order, “Watch my arms, Dad.”
I would fix my gaze on her as if it were my duty, even though I had been up since four and my legs were aching from lifting and carrying all day. since it was. If my head dipped, my mother would tap my ankle with her cane.
She would whisper, “You can go to sleep when she’s finished.”
So I observed. Each plié. each turn. Each small step gave her a sense of accomplishment.
The recital date was everywhere: it was circled on the calendar, adhered to the refrigerator, and had several alarms set on my phone. 6:30 p.m. on Friday. No shift, no overtime, and no emergency were allowed to occur at that time.
Lily held her small clothing bag as if it were magical as she stood in the doorway on the morning of the recital. Socks glided on the tile, hair already slicked back.
“Promise you’ll be there,” she added, her eyes narrowing as if she were examining my soul for vulnerabilities.
I lowered myself to eye level. “I swear. front row. The loudest applause
She smiled, gap-toothed and indomitable, and then half walked, half twirled off to school.
I arrived at work lighter than normal, as if the day had a purpose.
The city thereafter carried out its usual activities. The dispatcher’s radio cracked with awful news around 4:30: a water main broke next to a construction site, causing half the block to flood and traffic to collapse into chaos.
As soon as we pulled there, the street was boiling with brown water, horns were honking, and people were shooting rather than moving. It was instantaneous chaos. I waded in, my slacks wet and my boots full, all the while thinking of 6:30. My chest constricted with each minute.
I emerged from the hole at 5:50, soaking, trembling, and angry with the cosmos.
I grabbed my luggage and said to my supervisor, “I gotta go.”
He scowled as if I had proposed that we keep the water running indefinitely. “Now?”
“My child’s recital,” I remarked in a strained voice.
After a moment of staring, he jerked his chin. “Go. If your intellect is already gone, you are of no value here.
That was his closest thing to being kind.
I took off running. Wet boots pounding pavement and my heart trying to burst out of my ribs—no shower, no change of clothes. Just as the doors were closing, I entered the subway. People wrinkled their noses and edged away from me. I smelled like a flooded basement, so I couldn’t blame them.
Throughout the entire voyage, I bargained at each stop while staring at my phone.
I ran down the corridor as soon as I arrived at the school and slid into the back row of the auditorium, breathing heavily after a bear attack.
Little dancers in pink tutus formed a flower-like line onstage. Lily blinked hard as she walked into the light. Her gaze swept over the crowd. She was momentarily unable to locate me, and I noticed a flash of panic on her face as her mouth tightened as if she were holding back her tears.
Her eyes suddenly shifted to the back row and met mine.
Despite my dirty sleeve, I held up my hand.
Her entire body relaxed as if she could finally let go. She danced as if she owned the stage. Was she flawless? No. She stumbled, made one incorrect move, and looked to the girl next to her for guidance. But every time she twirled, her smile got broader, and I could feel my heart clapping from the inside out.
I was on the verge of tears when they bowed.
Then, with her tutu dancing and her bun slightly awry, Lily charged me in the hallway.
“You arrived!She yelled, as if it had truly been in dispute.
With a trembling voice, I said to her, “Nothing’s keeping me from your show.”
She buried her face in my shirt. She muttered, “I looked and looked.” “I assumed you might have become entangled in the trash.”
My laugh sounded like a choke. “They would require an army,” I remarked. “Not taking place.”
We took the subway, the inexpensive route home. After talking constantly for two stops, she smashed into my chest while wearing her costume and crumpling the recital program in her fist.
At that moment, I saw the man observing us from a few seats down.
Mid-forties, nice hair, a nice coat, and the kind of put-togetherness that comes only after years of getting adequate sleep. Like he was debating with himself, he kept looking at us and then away. After that, he raised his phone and aimed it at us.
I was startled awake by anger.
“Hey,” I said sharply and softly. Did you just snap a photo of my child?”
His eyes widened as he froze and began touching his screen as if his fingers were on fire.
He blurted, “I’m sorry.” “I ought not to have done that.”
I said, “Delete it.” “Now.”
Yes, he did. He flipped the phone so I could see an empty gallery after showing me the picture, deleting it, opening the trash, and then deleting it once more.
“There,” he muttered. “Gone.”
I didn’t respond, instead holding Lily closer. I promised myself that was the end of it as I watched the doors close when we got off at our stop. Strangely wealthy man on the train. One stressful moment. Completed.
I was mistaken the following morning.
In our kitchen, the morning light usually makes everything appear a bit gentler. It didn’t that day. While my mom wandered around humming and Lily colored on the floor, I was half awake and drinking awful coffee. Then there was a knock, loud enough to shake our cheap doorframe.
Then there was a sharper knock.
Then came a third that sounded like an irate person.
Keeping the chain in place, I opened the door.
One of the two men in dark coats had an earpiece-like appearance, and the other was broad. The man from the train was behind them.
He spoke my name slowly, as if he had practiced. “Mr. Anthony?”
I felt sick to my stomach.
“Pack Lily’s things” was the worst thing he could have said.
My mother showed up next to me, cane in hand. Lily’s fingertips sank into my leg’s back.
The large man moved to the front. “You and your daughter must accompany us, sir.”
My heart attempted to pierce my ribcage.
“No,” the train man responded hastily, raising his hands. “That isn’t it. I put it incorrectly.
Paint might have been stripped by my mother’s stare. “You think?”
Something snapped in the man’s face—polished calm slipping off—as he gulped and glanced past me at Lily.
“Graham is my name,” he declared. He took a big envelope with a logo printed in silver from his coat.
He said, “I need you to read what’s inside.” “Because I am here because of Lily.”
I didn’t open the door any more. “Slide it through.”
Yes, he did. I took the documents out. letterhead that is heavy. At the top, my name was printed. Words like “scholarship,” “full support,” “residency,” and “benefits” sprung out as though they belonged to other people’s lives.
A picture of an eleven-year-old girl in a white outfit, her legs nicely split, her face joyous and fierce, slipped out. Her eyes were like Graham’s.
“For Dad, next time be there” is written in looping handwriting on the back.
I shut my throat.
Graham nodded as if he knew precisely where I had stopped after seeing my face.
He whispered softly, “Her name was Emma.” “My daughter.” Before she could speak, she started dancing.
He informed us about missed meeting recitals. About conference calls, business travel, and the constant hope of another opportunity or performance. Then she became ill quickly, violently, and unfairly. He was in Tokyo finalizing a transaction, so he missed her second-to-last recital. He said he will make the next one.
The following one didn’t exist.
“I told her the night before she passed away that I would be there for someone else’s child,” he stated in a strained voice. I would assist a father who was struggling to be present. “Find the ones who smell like work but still clap loud,” she advised me.
He let out a shattered laugh. “That dad was you.”
I had no idea how to handle that. I couldn’t decide if I should feel thankful, angry, or both.
What is this, then?I raised the papers and asked. “You throw money at us out of guilt?”
He gave a headshake. “No vanishing,” he declared. “Charity without guilt.”
My mother had a harsh voice. “What’s the catch?”
Graham looked back at her. “The only catch is that Lily gets to dance for a while without worrying about money,” he remarked. “Actual floors. training that is safe. educators with expertise in their field. a full scholarship via the Emma Foundation.
“And you—one job, not two,” he said, glancing at me. Our building’s facilities manager. shift during the day. advantages. You are close enough to attend every lesson.
Lily pulled at my sleeve. With enormous eyes, she said, “Daddy, do they have larger mirrors?”
I almost broke over that.
A cautious smile tugged in Graham’s mouth. “Massive mirrors,” he remarked. “And a brightly lit studio.”
Lily gave a nod as though she were going over a crucial contract. She said, “I want to see.” Then, in a calmer tone: “But only if Dad is present.”
That afternoon, we took a tour of the school. studios with sunlight. Children at Barres. instructors who grinned as if they enjoyed their work. We took a tour of the building where I would work; it seemed stable but unglamorous. Instead of racing between two jobs and missing my life in the interim, I would prefer to have a single location to manage and clean.
My mom and I read every page again that night after Lily went to sleep, looking for traps that never materialized.
That knock on the door was a year ago.
I still get up early. Most of the time, I still smell like cleaning materials. However, I attend every class. each practice. each recital. As promised, I sit in the front row.
More than ever, Lily dances as if she is aware that someone is observing.
I can sometimes feel a second set of hands clapping somewhere in the air as she finishes a routine and looks out into the seats; it’s like a girl named Emma is finally receiving her wish.