There had been fireworks exploding in the sky and a drone capturing every moment. My fingers tightened around my diploma case as twenty-two years of being the invisible daughter crystallized in that single moment. I peeled off my graduation cap and set it on the counter next to that pathetic frozen pizza.
Four years of medical school, countless all-nighters, summa cum laude. And this was my celebration. The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.
Mom and Dad were still in Europe with Amanda, celebrating her business-degree graduation with a two-week tour of Italy and France. Her graduation had been last weekend. Mine was today.
They’d known about both dates for months. I pulled my phone from my purse and scrolled through the family group chat. There it was, sandwiched between vacation photos of Amanda posing in front of the Eiffel Tower and Dad’s blurry selfie attempt.
“Congrats, Cecilia, on your graduation. Proud of you!”
That was it. One sentence with an exclamation point, as if punctuation could make up for their absence.
I looked at the frozen pizza again. Supreme with extra cheese. Not even my favorite.
Amanda’s favorite. They’d probably bought it for her and forgot. This shouldn’t hurt anymore.
It was just another day in a lifetime of being overlooked. But something about the finality of graduation made it impossible to ignore. I’d been telling myself for years that when I achieved something truly extraordinary, something undeniable, they’d finally see me.
I’d pictured this day differently. Not extravagant like Amanda’s backyard bash with the live band and professionally catered dinner. Not with the drone photographer.
That must have cost thousands. Just something. A nice dinner out.
A card with a heartfelt message. Flowers, maybe. I ran my finger along the edge of my diploma case.
Inside was proof that I’d graduated at the top of my class from one of the most competitive medical schools in the country. Four years of sacrifice while Amanda changed majors three times before settling on business administration. My phone dinged with another notification.
A new photo in the family chat. Amanda wearing a beret at a sidewalk café. Thirty-six likes already.
I headed upstairs to change out of my graduation gown, passing the wall of family photos. Amanda’s face smiled from at least two-thirds of them. Dance recitals, soccer tournaments, high school graduation.
My presence was reduced to the annual family portraits and one awkward photo from my high school science fair. As I hung my gown in the closet, my phone rang. Mom’s face appeared on the screen.
“Hi, honey. How was the ceremony?”
Her voice had that distracted quality I knew too well. “It was fine.” I sat on my bed, suddenly exhausted.
“Did you get our message and the pizza? I told your father we should have ordered something, but everything was so busy with Amanda’s trip planning.”
In the background, I could hear laughter and the clink of glasses. “Yeah, I got it.
Thanks.”
“We’re so proud of you, sweetheart. Medical school. Who would have thought?”
“I did, Mom.
I’ve been saying I wanted to be a doctor since I was ten.”
“Of course, of course.” She laughed lightly. “Anyway, we’ll celebrate properly when we get back. Oh, Amanda wants to say hi.”
Before I could respond, my sister’s voice came through.
“Cecilia, congrats, sis. Isn’t Paris amazing? Dad got us tickets to the opera tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t know.
I’ve never been.”
“You should totally come next time. Hey, did you see the photos from my graduation party? The drone footage is insane.”
“Yeah, it looked nice.”
“Nice?
It was epic. Dad says it was worth every penny.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And I only graduated with a 3.2 GPA.
Nothing like your brainiac status.”
That was the moment something inside me shifted. After all these years, I’d just assumed Amanda had excelled academically, like she seemed to excel at everything else in our parents’ eyes. “Wait, what was your GPA again?” I asked carefully.
“3.2. Barely made laud. Nothing like your perfect grades, Dr.
Genius.”
3.2. After all the celebrations, the fireworks, the European vacation—for a 3.2. While I’d worked myself to exhaustion maintaining a 4.0, juggling research assistant work and volunteering at the campus clinic.
“Anyway, Mom wants the phone back. Love you. Bring me a souvenir from—wait, where are you going to celebrate?”
“Nowhere,” I said quietly as Mom took the phone back.
“We’ll talk when we get home, sweetie. Enjoy your pizza. Dad’s taking us to the Louvre now.
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