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.
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.
