“If being ‘Miss Perfect’ means I was raised by a man like Pastor Josh,” I said, looking directly at Dad, “then I wouldn’t change a single thing.”
He covered his mouth, shoulders folding in, eyes shining.
The principal whispered, “Finish strong, Claire.”
I nodded. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted to say.”
I walked off the stage. No one laughed. No one looked me in the eye. A boy who had once asked if I wore church clothes to birthday parties stared hard at the floor. One of the girls who loved calling me “Goody Claire” wiped under her eyes and kept her face turned away.
Dad waited near the side exit where the crowd thinned out. His robe was slightly crooked, and his eyes were red.
I walked up to him and said, “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”
He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Embarrassed me? Claire, you honored me more than I know how to bear.”
I started crying too.
Dad held the back of my head and said, “I just never wanted you hurt enough to have to say it that way.”
“I know, Dad.”
“But I’m glad you said it, honey,” he added.
I leaned back to look at him. “You are?”
