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After my wife Sarah died from cancer, I promised her I'd never let our 6-year-old Aaliyah quit dancing. Sarah had been too sick to take Aaliyah to classes the last few months, so now it was just me at Harmony Dance Studio.

The first class, I sat in the corner taking notes on everything the teacher said. Aaliyah struggled with the moves Sarah used to help her with at home. The whispers started immediately.

"Why is he writing and recording everything down? That's creepy."

Two mothers moved their daughters away when I approached to ask about practice schedules. Another mom took photos of me and started texting frantically. When I tried to help Aaliyah with her arm positions during break, three parents complained to the front desk about "inappropriate touching."

Week two was worse. Parents formed a barrier between me and the dance floor. The instructor kept glancing nervously at my notebook, asking what I was writing. My own neighbor, whose daughter danced with Aaliyah, told other parents I made her "uncomfortable" and suggested they watch their kids around me.

I watched Aaliyah's face crumble as other kids suddenly avoided her during snack time. She asked me why nobody wanted to play with her anymore, and if it was because Mommy wasn't there.

By week three, the studio owner cornered me in the parking lot with four mothers behind her. She said multiple parents had filed complaints about a suspicious man taking detailed notes about children and touching them inappropriately. She demanded I stop writing and suggested I drop Aaliyah off like other fathers do.

When I tried to explain I was just trying to help my daughter the way my wife used to, she cut me off and threatened to call police if I didn't leave immediately.

I pulled out my phone and showed her my notes—they weren't about the kids. They were detailed instructions Sarah had written during her final weeks, explaining every correction, every technique, every way to help Aaliyah improve. Then I opened my photos: Sarah in her costume from when she played the Sugar Plum Fairy at the Metropolitan Opera House, our wedding photo where she wore her pointe shoes, and finally, the program from last year's Nutcracker where it listed "Sarah Mitchell - Former Principal Dancer, New York City Ballet" as the guest choreographer.

The owner's face went white. The mothers behind her stepped back.

I wasn't finished. I explained how Sarah had choreographed three of the routines their advanced students were currently learning. How the studio's most popular recital pieces were her original work. How I was following her handwritten notes because I promised a dying woman I'd help our daughter dance the way she taught her.

Then I asked if she'd like to explain to a grieving 6-year-old why she couldn't learn her mommy's choreography anymore.

The next morning, the studio sent an email to all parents about their new family support program and announced they were dedicating their spring recital to Sarah's memory. The instructor personally apologized and now uses Sarah's notes to teach all the students.

Aaliyah has made four new best friends, and yesterday she whispered that she thinks Mommy would be proud of her grand jetés.

I know she would be.