The auditorium smelled of floor polish and cheap perfume. I sat seven rows back with my camera resting on my bad knee, trying to keep my hands steady. Twenty-two years of waiting for this exact morning, and I still felt as if I were about to drop a milk bottle.
I unfolded it with both hands.
The girls walked across the college stage one after another.
They called Ava first.
She started crying before her name had even finished echoing through the speakers. I watched her wipe her face on the sleeve of that black gown and laugh at herself halfway across the stage.
Then Claire. My middle one, the wild card.
She spotted me in the crowd and waved with both hands, the way she used to wave from the school bus window when she was eight years old. I waved back enthusiastically.
They called Ava first.
Lastly came June.
She didn't smile but walked across that stage the same way she'd walked through her whole life, as if she were carrying something heavier than the rest of us could see. Something heavier than a diploma.
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I lifted the camera. The shutter clicked. That was supposed to be the end of it.
Then the dean stepped back to the microphone and tapped it twice.
"We have one more presentation before we close."
I lowered the camera.
That was supposed to be the end of it.
Then my girls, or rather young women, walked back onto the stage together, hand in hand, the way they used to cross parking lots when they were five.
Something tightened in my chest, but I couldn't say why.
June took the microphone.
"Our father couldn't be here today," she said.
My stomach dropped through the floor of that auditorium.
Daniel.
Something tightened in my chest, but I couldn't say why.
They were going to talk about Daniel.
Twenty-two years of birthday cards he never sent, phone calls he never made, and now, on the one day I'd actually shown up for, they were going to honor the man who didn't.
I felt the hurt rise in my throat as if it had been waiting for me. I told myself to sit still, smile, and let them have this if they needed it.
Ava reached into the sleeve of her gown and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Claire pressed her hand over her mouth, and I saw her shoulders shake.
I felt the hurt rise in my throat.
"We found the notebook," June said. "The one in the kitchen drawer."
I closed my eyes and gripped the camera so hard that I heard the plastic creak. I thought about the gas receipt note, still folded in my wallet. I thought about Patricia, and every birthday I'd sat at that warped kitchen table with a pen, writing to three girls who were already asleep.
At the time, I told myself they'd read it someday or they wouldn't, and either way I'd said what needed saying.
