My classmates called me “Mop Princess” because my dad is the school janitor.
By prom night, those same people were lining up to apologize. My classmates laughed at me because I’m the daughter of a janitor.
I’m 18F. Call me Brynn. My dad is the janitor at my high school.
His name is Cal. He cleans floors, empties trash, stays late after games, fixes what people break and never say sorry for. And yeah—he’s my dad.
That made me a joke. Second week of freshman year, I was at my locker when this guy Mason yelled down the hall:
“Hey, Brynn! You get extra trash privileges or what?”
People laughed.
I laughed too, because if you laugh it doesn’t count as hurting, right? After that, I wasn’t Brynn anymore. I was the janitor’s daughter.
“Sweeper Girl.”
“Trash Baby.”
In the cafeteria one day, a guy yelled, “Your dad gonna bring a plunger to prom so we don’t clog the fancy toilets?”
Everyone cracked up. I stared at my tray and pretended my ears didn’t burn. That night I went through my Instagram and deleted every picture with my dad in it.
No more selfies with him in his work shirt. No more “Proud of my old man” captions. At school, if I saw him pushing his cart, I’d slow down, let a gap open between us.
I hated myself for that. I was 14 and scared of being the punchline. My dad never snapped back.
Kids shoved past him. Knocked over his yellow “Caution: Wet Floor” signs. Called, “Hey Cal, you missed a spot!”
He just smiled, picked up the sign, kept working.
At home he’d ask, “You doing okay, kiddo?”
I’d say, “Yeah. School’s fine.”
He’d look at me like he wanted to push, then back off. Mom died when I was nine.
Car accident. After that, Dad picked up any overtime he could. Nights, weekends, whatever.
I’d wake up at midnight and see him at the kitchen table with a calculator and a stack of bills. “Go back to sleep,” he’d say. “I’m just wrestling numbers.”
By senior year, the jokes were quieter but still there.
“Careful, she might put you in the dumpster.”
“Don’t piss off Brynn, she’ll get the janitor to shut off your water.”
Always with a smile. Always “just kidding.”
Prom season hit and people lost their minds. Group chats about dresses.
Limos. Talk about lake houses and who was sneaking in what. My friends asked, “You going?”
“Nah,” I said.
“Prom’s lame.”
They shrugged and moved on. I pretended that didn’t sting. One afternoon, my guidance counselor, Ms.
Tara, called me in. I sat down, already bracing for some “Let’s talk about your future” speech. She folded her hands.
“Your dad’s been here late every night this week,” she said. I frowned. “For what?”
“Prom setup,” she said.
“He’s been helping hang lights, tape cords, all that.”
“Isn’t that… his job?” I asked. She shook her head. “Not this part.
Custodial hours only go so far. He volunteered the rest.” She paused. “‘For the kids.’ That’s what he told me.”
Something tightened in my chest.
That night I found him at the kitchen table with his old calculator and a notebook. He didn’t notice me at first. “Okay, so tickets… tux rental… maybe I can cover a dress if I—” he muttered.
I walked closer. “What are you doing?” I asked. He jumped and covered the notebook like it was a test.
I pulled the notebook toward me. He’d written: