“One, two, three… turn.”
“One, two, three… turn.”
Over and over, until the linoleum squeaked under her feet.
She even found ballroom tutorials online and watched them with a notebook in her lap, scribbling down steps so she wouldn’t embarrass herself — or him.
One night, after she’d danced until she was out of breath, she sat at the kitchen table and looked up at me.
“Mom,” she said quietly, “do you think Caleb really likes me?”
The hope in her voice nearly broke me in half.
I wanted to tell her to be careful. I wanted to warn her that boys like Caleb didn’t ask girls like her to prom without a reason. I wanted to protect her the way I’d been trying to protect her since the day she was born.
Instead, I chose my words very carefully.
