Mr. Gideon sat in the front row wearing a suit older than I was.
He complained that the chairs were designed by enemies of the spine.
He cried anyway.
He thought no one saw.
Everyone saw.
Elowen came with the kids.
Wren held a sign that said GO AUNT VESPER in purple marker.
The toddler fell asleep halfway through the ceremony.
The baby, now walking, tried to eat the program.
My mother sat beside them.
She looked nervous.
When my name was called, I walked across the stage, and for one bright second I saw all the versions of my life at once.
The girl in the kitchen holding an acceptance letter.
The waitress picking a loan rejection off the diner floor.
The eighteen-year-old sobbing under fluorescent lights.
The attic student eating roast chicken with a stranger.
The daughter in the hospital chair.
The sister on the porch saying no.
