I was bursting with pride watching Lana graduate high school. We’d been counting down for months — maybe even more than she had. Her emerald green dress shimmered, her smile beamed, and everything was perfect. Until one girl grabbed the mic and shattered our lives.

Richard and I had poured everything into Lana — our only child, our entire world. We arrived early, clutching flowers, hearts full. The ceremony was beautiful, filled with joy and applause. Then came the father-daughter dance — a tradition, a moment we’d waited years for.

When Richard’s name was called, a classmate suddenly stepped up to the mic. She looked him in the eye and said, “So, Daddy… are you ready for our dance too?” The gym went silent. Whispers swirled. Lana stood frozen. The girl told a story of abandonment, of a child Richard had kept secret.

He tried to explain. Said it was a “mistake,” a “fling,” ancient history. But to me and Lana, it was betrayal. That night, I told him not to come home. I filed for divorce within days. And though Lana grew quiet, we had the truth. That girl — she didn’t just want a dance. She wanted justice.