For years, my last name didn’t matter—only my dad’s job did. In the hallways, I wasn’t Brynn; I was “the janitor’s kid,” a punchline whispered loud enough to sting. By senior year, I’d learned how to smile through it, how to walk a step behind my father’s cart and pretend I didn’t hear the jokes. Prom was supposed to be just another night I skipped to avoid the spotlight. Instead, it became the moment I finally stepped into it. My dad, Cal, never complained. He stayed late after games, fixed…
Read MoreThey Mocked Me for Being the Janitor’s Daughter. At Prom, I Took the Mic—and My Words Broke the Room.
