Everyone else rolled up in sleek rides—some in hired Bentleys, others in their parents’ polished sports cars. Me? I arrived in a rattling old van that groaned like a tired beast with every pothole. Instead of gliding out in stilettos on the arm of some dashing lad, I was lifted onto the pavement by the one man who’d never let me down—my dad. In a wheelchair.
And it was the most magical night of my life.
I’m Imogen, and this is a tale I never planned to tell. But after that school ball, and all that followed, I learned that the most remarkable souls often wear the plainest labels.
We never had much. Mum died when I was six, leaving just Dad and me. He toiled long shifts at a garden centre, earning barely enough to keep the kettle boiling and bread on the table. Yet he always made time—fumbling through my plaits before school, tucking silly notes into my lunchbox, dragging himself to every parents’ evening, even if he had to limp from the bus stop.
Then, when I turned fifteen, he slipped at work. A spinal injury, they called it. But it stole more than that—bit by bit, it took his legs. First a cane, then a frame, and at last, the wheelchair. He claimed disability, but the forms tangled him in red tape. We sold the car, lost the flat. Ended up in a cramped studio, and I took odd jobs after lessons to help with the shopping.
Never once did he grumble. Not a word.
So when the school ball loomed, I didn’t bother dreaming. The frock, the ticket, the slap—all too dear. And who’d ask me? I wasn’t the sort lads fancied. Just the quiet girl in charity-shop jumpers and second-hand schoolbooks. But deep down? I ached for it. Just once, to feel lovely. To belong.
Dad sussed it out, like he always did.
One evening, I trudged in from school to find a garment bag draped over the settee. Inside hung a forest-green gown—understated, perfect, my size exactly.
“Dad, how—?”
“Put a bit by,” he said, casual as you please. “Got it in the sales. Thought my girl ought to feel like royalty for a night.”
I near toppled his chair hugging him.
“But who’ll take me?” I murmured.
He fixed me with those weary, warm eyes. “Might not be quick, but I’d be chuffed to wheel you in like the proudest old sod alive.”
I laughed through tears. “You’d really?”
“Love, there’s nowt I’d rather do.”
So we sorted it. I nicked heels off a mate and learned contouring from YouTube. On the night, I buttoned him into his good shirt—the one he wore to every nativity and prize day. Curled my hair, slipped into that green dress, and caught my reflection. For the first time in ages, I felt… enough.
Our ride to the hall wasn’t posh. A neighbour lent us their knackered van, its suspension screeching like a banshee on every bump. But we made it.
I faltered outside the school hall. Bass thrummed through the bricks; flashes within teased a glittering fantasy—crystal lights, sequins, skirts twirling like autumn leaves. I watched girls spill from shiny motors, giggling with their dapper escorts. Then I looked at Dad.
He pivoted his chair, offered his hand. “Ready to knock ’em dead?”
I gulped, nodded.
As we wheeled in, the music played on. But the whispers? They stopped.
Stares prickled my skin.
Some girls elbowed each other, lips puckered in faux sympathy. Lads just gawped. My chest pinched.
Then—magic.
Mr. Whittaker, our maths teacher, stepped up and clapped. Then Miss Patel joined. Then my best mate Tilly charged over, shrieking, “You’re STUNNING!”
Like dominoes, others followed. A few lads even fist-bumped Dad, thanking him for coming.
That night? I danced.
Not just with Dad, who spun me gently across the scuffed floor with a grace that near broke me, but with mates, teachers, even the headmaster. When “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” warbled through the speakers, we swayed together while others watched—not from pity, but because the air hummed with something raw and real.
At one point, a girl from the ball committee whispered, “You and your dad… you’ve made this proper special.”
When they announced the ball queen, I wasn’t listening. So when they called, “Imogen Whitby!” I near dropped my lemonade.
Then I saw Dad swiping at his eyes. “Told you you were royalty,” he croaked.
They beckoned me up. I hesitated, then grabbed Dad’s hand.
“If it’s all right,” I told the room, “I’ll share this with the bloke who got me here—in every way that counts. My hero.”
The hall erupted. Someone snapped us—me in emerald silk, Dad in his chair, both grinning like Cheshire cats—and by morning, that photo had gone mad online. Strangers wrote things like “This is family,” “Proper love, this,” and “Blubbing into my tea rn.”
But the real fairy-tale bit came weeks later.
A woman contacted the school. She’d seen our picture, turned out to head a grants trust. Lost her own dad young, she said. Wanted to meet.
Next thing I knew, she offered full tuition at the uni I’d only ever doodled about in my notebooks—the one I’d never afford.
Now, years on, I’m studying youth work, hoping to help kids like me. Still live with Dad; his health’s steadier. He jokes his chair set me free—and he’s not wrong.
I used to blush for what we lacked. Now I swell with what we’ve got: grit, love, and the sort of tie that turns a school dance into a forever memory.
So yeah. My skint old man took me to the ball in a wheelchair.
And I’ve never felt more blessed. 💐
