Your mother is graduating?”
“Yes,” I said. “Tonight.”
As we walked down the aisle, their faces shifted when they saw him.
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His jaw tightened. “I thought this was a family thing.”
“You said you wanted to come home,” I told him. “This is home now. Stay and see what it looks like without you.”
Something flickered in his eyes, anger and shame braided together. He looked at the crowd inside, then nodded once.
Most of my siblings were seated near the front. As we walked down the aisle, their faces shifted when they saw him. Hannah, who had never known him, stared like she was seeing a ghost.
Mom sat in the middle of the row, twisting her program. He slipped into the row behind us.
Dad sucked in a breath behind me.
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The lights dimmed. A professor welcomed everyone and started calling names. Graduates crossed the stage. Families cheered. Then the slideshow began.
At first, it was random students in scrubs, hugging their families. Then Mom’s face filled the screen.
She was in a faded T-shirt and sneakers, mopping an office hallway. A stroller sat behind her with a sleeping toddler inside, a textbook propped on the handle. Another photo appeared: Mom at our kitchen table, surrounded by notes, highlighter in hand.
Dad sucked in a breath behind me.
I felt Dad flinch.
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The dean stepped up to the mic. “Tonight, we are honored to present our Student of the Decade award.” Mom’s head snapped up.
“This student began our program as a single mother of 10 children,” the dean said. “She worked nights, raised her family, and still showed up for every clinical.”
I felt Dad flinch.
