My grandchild, Scarlett, lost her dad, my eldest son, when she was only eight. He passed away in a car a-cc-ide-nt two years ago. God rest his soul. But even that tragedy didn’t make her give up dancing.
Scarlett had been learning ballet since she was very young and wanted to become a professional dancer. When my middle son Robert asked her to dance at his wedding, everyone was thrilled.
On the wedding day, she looked amazing, spinning in her tutu to beautiful music. The guests gave her a standing ovation. But just 30 minutes later, I found her in the garden crying her heart out.
“Granny, I won’t be dancing again!” she sobbed.
“Why? Everyone loved it!” I said, confused. Then I saw why.
Her pointe shoes were on the ground—ribbons cut.
“Someone cut the ribbons, Granny! The shoes are ruined!” Scarlett said.
Who would do something so cruel? I didn’t know who was responsible, but I knew they’d pay for it.
Margaret’s five-year-old son, Tommy, came running toward us, waving something in his hands — the cut ribbons from Scarlett’s shoes.
“Sweetheart, where did you get those ribbons?”
“I cut them!” he announced proudly. “I did good!”
“But why would you do that? Didn’t you like Scarlett’s dancing?”
“I loved it. But Mommy told me to do it. She said Scarlett was being bad and trying to steal her wedding.”
Before I could respond, Margaret appeared.
“Get away from my son!” she snarled, yanking Tommy behind her.
“He did what any real man would do: protected his mother at her wedding.”
“Protected you from what, exactly?”
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “You saw her out there in that white dress, twirling around like some little princess. This is MY day, MY moment!”
“She’s a child! And you chose that dress!”
“She shouldn’t have tried to overshadow me,” Margaret spat. “This is my wedding, and I won’t be upstaged by some… little ballerina.”
I turned to find my son Robert standing nearby, his face ashen. But Margaret wasn’t done. She marched into the reception hall, grabbed the microphone, and plastered on a fake smile.
“Dear guests!” Her voice rang out, shrill and false. “Let’s raise our glasses and celebrate the most important day of my life! A toast to me and my wonderful groom Robert! Now, if everyone would move to the chapel, we can get to the main event: my wedding!”
I walked to the stage, took the microphone from her hand, and held up Scarlett’s ruined shoes.
“I’m sorry, everyone,” I said, my voice steady despite my anger, “but you need to see what kind of person is standing before you. This woman instructed her young son to destroy my granddaughter’s dance shoes because she felt threatened by a child.”
Margaret’s face drained of color, but her chin jutted out defiantly.
“Oh, come on!” she snapped. “It’s my wedding! Why should I share the spotlight with anyone?”
I looked at my son. “Robert, are you going to let this woman humiliate your niece? She used her own child as a weapon!”
Robert walked to where Scarlett stood crying and kneeled before her, taking her small hands in his.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. Then he stood and faced the room. “The wedding is off.”
Margaret’s mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious! Over some stupid shoes?”
“No,” Robert said quietly. “Over what those shoes represent. Over who you really are.”
The guests began to leave. Margaret stood alone in the middle of the dance floor, her perfect day in ruins around her.
Robert and I led Scarlett away.
Later that evening, I sat with Scarlett in my kitchen. Her eyes were still red from crying. The familiar scent of chocolate chip cookies filled the air, warm and comforting, just like her father used to make them.
“Granny, I think I will dance again. Daddy would want me to keep dancing, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes,” I smiled, thinking of my son and his endless encouragement of Scarlett’s dreams. “He absolutely would want his little swan to dance again.”
I could almost see my son smiling down at us, watching his daughter’s strength shine through her pain.
Tomorrow we would buy new shoes for Scarlett to dance again, her spirit unbroken by someone else’s cruelty. After all, stars can’t help but shine, no matter how dark the night becomes.
