For as long as you can remember, it’s been just you and your dad, Andrew Knight, riding life’s harsh currents in a boat patched with duct tape and sheer stubbornness. You’ve lived in the same peeling apartment with a heater that wheezes like it’s dying and a fridge that moans at night. Poverty wasn’t something you escaped—it was something you inherited. Yet, he did his best to keep it from souring your childhood.

He made a game out of scraping together change for groceries. He turned cheap meals into tradition—canned beans and fried rice seasoned with whatever he could find. He wore his work boots until the soles curled like old paper, just so you could have shoes that fit. He never complained.

That’s why when you come home one cloudy afternoon, dragging your feet after a long day at school

He’s standing in the middle of the living room, half-lit by the soft orange glow leaking in through the curtains, Draped across his arms, delicate and shining, is the dress. The one you swore you wouldn’t ask for because it was too expensive, too impossible.

He looks up at you slowly, face lined and pale. His eyes are tired—so, so tired—

“I know it’s not brand new,” he says, voice gruff, . “But it’s close. And it’s yours.”

He doesn’t tell you about the backroom deals, the favors he had to trade, the men with cold eyes and loaded pockets who welcomed him into something darker than night. He doesn’t speak about how his hands shook when they handed him the money, or how he’s been sleeping with one eye open ever since. You don’t know that he’s slipped into a life he swore he’d never touch,

A tightness in his jaw. The way his fingers grip the fabric like he’s afraid he’ll drop it—or lose you.

take the dress. It’s soft. Real. And so impossibly beautiful it hurts. This is his offering. His love, paid for with secrets. And in that quiet moment between you, You just let yourself believe—for now—that this miracle

Because sometimes, the people who love us the most bleed for us in silence.