The stadium shimmered in May sunlight, a sea of navy graduation gowns and proud families clutching bouquets and cameras. When the announcer’s voice echoed through the sound system—”Camila Elaine Reed, Master of Science in Data Analytics, summa cum laude”—I looked up instinctively toward the bleachers, searching the section I’d specifically reserved and paid extra for, the one marked with a small printed sign: “Reserved for Family.”
Four empty silver seats glared back at me, catching the afternoon light like an accusation.
I walked across that stage alone, shook the dean’s hand, accepted my diploma in its leather folder, and forced a smile for the university photographer. My hand gripped the diploma so tightly the edges bent slightly. Around me, the auditorium erupted in celebration—families screaming names, air horns blasting, toddlers waving signs they couldn’t yet read. I stood at the edge of the stage, watching a stranger’s family embrace their graduate, and felt my smile shrink with each camera click.
The truth is, I shouldn’t have been surprised. My parents had skipped my undergraduate graduation four years earlier too. That time, the excuse had been that my younger sister Avery had a regional cheerleading competition in Arizona. “You understand, right, Mila? This is a really big opportunity for her. You’ll have plenty of other accomplishments.” My mother had said it so casually, as if my four years of work, my 3.9 GPA, my scholarship that had kept me debt-free—none of it registered as particularly special.
But this was graduate school. This was a master’s degree I’d earned while working full-time as a junior data analyst, studying until two a.m. most nights, surviving on instant ramen and determination. This was summa cum laude, the highest honors my program offered. I’d naively believed that this time would be different.
I’d sent the invitation two months in advance—a formal card with gold lettering, not just a text message. I’d called to confirm three times. I’d even offered to pay for their hotel. My mother had said, “Of course we’ll be there, honey. We’re so proud of you.” My father had grunted his agreement in the background, probably not looking up from his newspaper.
I should have known better.
As I walked out of the auditorium into the blinding Colorado sunshine, I watched families swarm their graduates, saw mothers cry and fathers beam, saw siblings jumping with genuine excitement. A little boy, maybe seven, ran up to his sister and handed her a handmade sign that said “You did it!” in crayon. The sister burst into tears and scooped him up.
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