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As I confidently walked off the stage, the mocking laughter had completely vanished. None of my classmates dared to look me in the eye as I made my way back past my row. One boy, who had previously mocked me by asking whether I wore church clothes to birthday parties, now simply stared hard at the floor in shame. Nearby, one of the primary girls who relished calling me “Goody Claire” was busy wiping underneath her eyes, keeping her face deliberately turned away from me.
Dad was patiently waiting for me near the side exit of the hall, where the thick crowd began to naturally thin out. The collar of his robe sat slightly crooked on his shoulders, and his eyes were noticeably red from crying.
I walked straight up to him and offered a tentative apology, saying, “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you”.
He looked down at me as if I had completely lost my mind. “Embarrassed me? Claire, you honored me more than I know how to bear”.
Hearing his words, I finally allowed myself to start crying as well.
Dad gently cradled the back of my head in his hand, murmuring, “I just never wanted you hurt enough to have to say it that way”.
“I know, Dad,” I agreed softly.
“But I’m glad you said it, honey,” he affirmed.