When the star quarterback invited my daughter with Down syndrome to the prom, I wanted to believe that kindness had finally found her. Then I took his tuxedo jacket, put my hand in my pocket and found something that turned my relief into fear in a matter of seconds.
Rosie was standing in the middle of the tile floor, with silver shoes two brighter sizes, counting quietly. I watched her from the table, with a cup of cold tea forgotten in my hands.
“One, two, three, turn,” he whispered. “One, two, three, turn.”
He hadn’t worn the dress yet. He was practicing with pajama shorts and a T-shirt, but his face already reflected the atmosphere of the prom.
Rosie had Down syndrome in mosaic.
“Mom, am I doing well?”
“You’re doing it perfectly, honey.”
Rosie had Down syndrome in mosaic. At first, strangers rarely noticed it, but his classmates noticed it every day.
I had seen the evidence in parts. A broken jacket sleeve that she said had been hooked in a locker. A teddy bear with marker marks on the face. Silent tears in the car when I asked her about her day and she replied, “Good.”
“Steven said the song is slow,” he said, turning around. He said I just have to follow him.
“That’s right, honey.”
Why my Rosie, when could I have entered any classroom and chosen any girl?
Steven. The star quarterback. The boy whose name appeared in morning ads every Friday.
Three weeks ago he knocked on our door with a single white tulip in his hand. She looked Rosie in the eye and invited her to the prom like she was the only girl in the county.
I said yes before she could, then I apologized and let her say it herself.
My sister Megan cried when I told her. “Lauren, you deserve it. Let her enjoy it.”
“I want to let her have this,” I replied. I’m trying.
But a little voice inside me kept asking me the question that I couldn’t get out of my head. Why her? Why my Rosie, when he could have walked into any classroom and picked any girl?
I told myself that I was being unfair. That there were still good guys.
“You look like a princess.”
