My Daughter Didn’t Want Me at Her Talent Show — So I Found a Way to Surprise Her

Lisa was six years old when my wife died. It took her eight months to die of cancer. It’s been just Lisa and me against the world for seven years.

During the day, I worked on construction sites, and at night, I learned how to braid hair. I learned about tampons, training bras, and mean girls.

I wore my leather vest to every parent-teacher meeting because it was the only thing I had that didn’t have concrete dust on it.

And now she felt embarrassed by me.

For an hour, I sat at that kitchen table and stared at her note. Then I called the school and asked if I might sign up to be in the talent show.

Mrs. Patterson, the music teacher, sounded confused. “Mr. Reeves, the deadline to sign up was two weeks ago.” There are no more vacancies open.

“Please,” I said. “It’s important. I’ll go last. Give me five minutes. I have to do this.

My voice must have convinced her of something. “Okay. You’re in. But Mr. Reeves, what will you be doing?

I said, “A song I wrote.” “For my daughter.”

I

didn’t say anything to Lisa. I told her I had to work late on the night of the talent show. She seemed to be at ease. She was actually glad that her dad wouldn’t be there. That stung more than anything else.

I saw her go with her friend’s mom. We had picked out the blue outfit together, and her hair was in the French braid I had learned how to do from YouTube.

It hurt my chest to see how much she looked like her mother.

I got to the school one hour later. Mrs. Patterson met me at the rear door with my guitar. She stared at my vest, my tattoos, and my boots, and I could see her gulp anxiously. “Mr. Reeves, Lisa doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”

“No,

ma’am.”

“She’s going to be so embarrassed when you walk out on that stage.” Mrs. Patterson said in a soft voice. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I stared at her. “I’ve been Lisa’s dad for 13 years. For seven years, I’ve been both of her parents. I prepared every breakfast, signed every permission sheet, and stayed up all night to help with every nightmare. I learned how to braid hair, paint nails, and chat about boys on my own. My voice broke. “And now she’s embarrassed by me. Yes, ma’am. “I’m sure.”

There were a lot of people in the auditorium. I stood behind the stage and watched one kid after another perform. Piano songs. Dance moves. Tricks with magic. And Lisa. It sounded just like her mother’s voice when my Lisa sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” She was lovely and sure of herself, and when she was done, the crowd went wild.

As she stepped off stage, she was beaming. Then she saw me standing in the wings.

Her face turned white. Then it turned crimson. She snarled, “Dad, what are you doing here?” “You can’t be here.” You said you had to work.

“I lied, sweetie.”

“Please go, Dad.” Please. Everyone is going to see you and—

The speaker said Mrs. Patterson’s name. “And for our last performance, we have something unique to add to tonight’s program. Please give a warm welcome to Mike, Lisa Reeves’ father.

Lisa took hold of my arm. “Please, Dad. Please don’t do this to me.

I gazed down at my kid. “Sometimes being a dad involves making your kid feel bad. But sometimes it requires being honest with them about who you are. I gave her a kiss on the head. “I love you, Lisa,” even if you don’t love me back.

I took my guitar and walked out on stage. The auditorium was quiet. Two hundred people were looking at the biker with tattoos and a leather vest. I could hear people talking. I could see parents dragging their youngsters a bit closer.

I sat down on the stool, moved the microphone, and gazed out at the people. I told him, “My name is Mike Reeves.” ” I’m the father of Lisa. Her only parent remaining is her mother. She told me not to come tonight because she doesn’t like how I look.

The whispers got louder. I saw Lisa in the wings. She was crying, her hands over her face.

“I don’t blame her,” I said again. “I know how I look.” I know I don’t belong at school events. I know that some dads wear suits and ties, and I wear leather and boots. I stopped for a moment. But seven years ago, my wife died and left me with a six-year-old kid who had just lost her mother. And I had to learn how to be enough for her.

I began to play. Basic chords. The tune I had been working on for three weeks.

“I learned how to braid your hair in the dark, little daughter. Learned how to paint your nails without making a mess. Learned how to talk about the boys who hurt you. Learned how to be both your mother and father.

My voice broke, but I kept on. “You’re ashamed of me now, and that’s fine. Thirteen is hard, and fitting in is the most important thing. But my child, I want you to know that I’m not embarrassed of you. Never. “Not once.”

I could see parents in the audience crying now. But I was looking at Lisa.

“I have tattoos from mistakes I made before you were born.” My bike is older than you are. I work with my hands since that’s all I know how to do. But these hands held you when you were born. These hands put your mother in the ground. “These hands learned to be gentle for you.”

The lyric was easy to remember: “It’s okay to be ashamed of me.” No matter what, I’ll adore you with all my heart. I’ll be here when the embarrassment changes to pride. “I’m your dad, and I’m on your side.”

Lisa was crying behind the scenes. A lot of other youngsters were sobbing also. Half of the parents in that room were crying.

I finished the last line. “One day you’ll understand why I look the way I do.” These tattoos convey tales, and they’re all about getting through. And if you’re lucky, baby girl, you’ll know this too: the people who love you don’t care what you look like. “They just love you.”

The last chord boomed out in the quiet auditorium. No one moved for a second.

Lisa then ran onto the stage. She threw herself at me and cried on my chest. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry. “I’m sorry.”

I cried when holding my baby girl. “It’s okay, my dear. “It’s okay.”

The applause began soft and got louder and louder until it was deafening. Everyone in the auditorium rose up. But they didn’t matter to me. Lisa was the only thing that mattered to me.

She cried, “I love you.” “I love you so much, but I’m a terrible person.”

I mumbled into her hair, “You’re thirteen.” “Teenagers should be embarrassed by their parents.” It’s your job. “Even so, I have to love you.”

She drew away and glanced at me. Her nose was red, and her mascara was flowing. “Did you learn to braid hair for me, Daddy?”

“Watched about a hundred videos on YouTube.”

“And you wrote that song?”

“Been working on it for three weeks.” I don’t sing very well.

She gave me another hug. “It was great. You are perfect.

Parents I had never met came up to me after the event and shook my hand. The kids said they liked the music. A man in a fine suit commented, “You made me realize that I need to spend more time with my daughter.” Thanks.

But Lisa was the finest part. She held my hand as we walked to my pickup. When we arrived at my Harley, which was parked next to it, she said, “Dad?” Can I ride the bike home with you?

“Are you sure? What about the mother of your friend?

“I want everyone to see me with you.” She smiled. “I want them to know you’re my dad.”

I gave her my helmet, and she got on behind me. She grabbed on tight as we went into town, and I could hear her chuckle. Laugh a lot. For the first time in a long time.

She hugged me in the driveway when we came home. “I’m going to tell everyone at school what happened tonight.” About how my dad wrote a song for me and sang it in front of everyone.

“Lisa, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, Dad.” I want everyone to know how lucky I am.

That night, she fell asleep on the couch with her head on my shoulder, just like she did when she was a kid. I thought about her mother when I looked at her. I said quietly, “I think I did okay tonight.” “Our girl is going to be fine.”

And for the first time in seven years, I really believed it.