I am a single father who works two low—paying shifts to make ends meet. My six-year-old daughter, Lily, lives by ballet: she is delighted with classes, and I save every coin I spend to pay for the studio. Our days are a series of tedious shifts, but for the sake of her smile, I endure fatigue and the smells of city streets.
On the day of the school concert, everything went ahead: the plumbing broke at work, and I barely made it to the performance wet and out of breath. On the way back to the subway, one man delicately took a picture of Lily — I demanded to delete the picture, and he complied; at that moment it seemed to me that the situation was over. We returned home tired, but the happiness of seeing her on stage overwhelmed everything else.
The next morning, the same man knocked on our door and handed over a thick envelope: he turned out to be a representative of the foundation created in memory of his daughter Emma, also a dancer, whom he often did not have time to see. The letter contains a scholarship offer for Lily, help with housing, and a permanent job for me so that I can be around without grueling night shifts. We accepted the help, and since then, Lily has continued to study ballet, and I finally manage to attend all her performances.
