“Excuse me?” I said, my voice coming out sharper and colder than I intended.
Brenda offered a thin, patronizing smile. “I’m just saying, dear, maybe some events aren’t meant for everyone. This is a father-daughter dance. It highlights what she doesn’t have. And those shoes…” Brenda let out a soft, tsk-tsk sound. “Well, it just shows she’s lacking a man’s guidance for the dress code tonight.”
“My daughter is not lacking a father,” I snapped, standing up so quickly Brenda took a step back. “Her father was Staff Sergeant Marcus Thorne. He gave his life defending this country. And those shoes were painted by his own hands.”
Brenda blinked, momentarily caught off guard, while the mothers behind her suddenly became incredibly interested in their cell phones.
“Well,” Brenda recovered, adjusting her pearl necklace. “I meant no offense. I just think she looks a bit out of place. It’s a shame, really.”
