“How can you be here dancing with a stranger in a place like this?”

Harold did not step back or look away.

He stood his ground, his hands relaxed by his sides, his shoulders square.

“I am Harold Bennett,” he said, extending a hand toward my son.

David ignored the hand entirely.

“I don’t care who you are,” David said, his eyes narrowing.

Harold slowly lowered his hand, his expression remaining gentle.

“My wife, Sarah, passed away three years ago after a long illness,” Harold said softly.

David blinked, but his jaw remained tight and angry.

“On her final night, she held my hand in the hospital bed,” Harold continued.

“She told me that grief is a heavy coat, and I should not wear it forever.”

The entire gymnasium was completely quiet now.

Even the coordinator by the sound system had turned down the music.

“She gave me her blessing to live again, David,” Harold said.

“I believe your father would want the same for your mother.”

David stared at Harold, his chest rising and falling quickly under his heavy coat.

The sharp anger in his eyes seemed to falter, replaced by something hollow and tired.

He looked at me, his lip trembling for a fraction of a second.

Then he looked down at the floor, his shoulders slumping.

He did not say another word to either of us.

David turned on his heel and walked quickly toward the exit.

The heavy doors swung shut behind him with a dull, echoing thud.

I took a step to follow him, but my legs felt heavy, like lead.

The ballroom remained still, the silence pressing in around us.

I looked down at the spot where David had been standing.

A small, folded piece of paper had slipped from his unzipped coat pocket when he turned.

I walked over and picked it up from the floor.