The PTA president sneered at my grieving 7-year-old at the Father-Daughter dance: “Poor thing, if you don’t have a dad, don’t come here just to feel sad. This party is for complete families.” Just as my daughter began to cry, the hall doors burst open. A 4-star General walked in, followed by 10 other soldiers. He knelt before my daughter: “Sorry I’m late.”

The gymnasium of Oak Creek Elementary had been aggressively transformed into a sugary wonderland. Streamers in pastel pink and baby blue were strangled around basketball hoops, and the air was thick with a cloying mixture of cheap fruit punch, floor wax, and the desperate, high-pitched energy of three hundred children. It was the annual Father-Daughter Dance, a calendar event that had been circled in red ink in every household in the district.

Every household, except ours. For us, the date was a looming storm front, a black mark on the timeline of our survival.