“No, it’s fine.” My throat tightened. “You hated those gym bleachers anyway.”
Brian let out a soft, bittersweet laugh. “Yeah… but I loved seeing her smile from the stage, Ren. My goodness. Remember her eighth-grade play? She must’ve waved at us for five whole minutes.”
A faint smile touched my lips. “She said she wanted us to see her… even if she looked silly.”
Silence stretched between us.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll call you later. You’ll text me when you get there?”
“I will,” I said, trying not to sound as lost as I felt.
After hanging up, I drifted into Olivia’s room, letting my fingers trace over her belongings. That’s when I noticed the old jewelry box tucked away in the drawer beneath her window. When I opened it, the tiny ballerina inside began to spin, creaking softly—just like it had when she was little.
Next to a faded friendship bracelet lay a folded piece of paper.
Olivia had started leaving notes like this after a lupus flare had landed her in the hospital last winter. Her handwriting was big, round, and unmistakably hers:
“If anything ever happens and I can’t go to grad, promise me you’ll go for me, Mom. Please don’t let that day disappear.”
I pressed the note to my lips, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume.
Later, I put on her favorite necklace and picked up her graduation cap, letting the tassel slip through my fingers as if it might anchor me.
By the time I arrived at the school, the parking lot was already buzzing—balloons bobbing, bouquets everywhere, voices echoing with excitement. Two mothers nearby fussed over corsages and hairpins. One of them glanced at me and smiled kindly.
“First grad?” she asked.
I swallowed. “Sort of. My daughter… Olivia… she—” My voice faltered as I clutched the cap tighter.
Her expression softened instantly. “I’m so sorry.”
I nodded, grateful she understood without needing more words.
Inside, I found a seat on the bleachers, away from the crowds, gripping Olivia’s cap so tightly that my hand began to ache. Around me, parents waved and called out to their children, a sea of blue robes filling the gym.
There was an empty space in the front row—exactly where Olivia should have been.
Someone nearby whispered, “Isn’t that Olivia’s mom? Poor thing.”
I pretended not to hear.
Mr. Dawson, the principal, stepped up to the microphone. “Good morning, parents, students, and honored guests. Thank you for joining us on this special day—”
His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat.
I scanned the rows of students until I found Kayla—Olivia’s best friend. She stood near the end of the second row, quietly wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
Her friends gathered close around her, whispering. I noticed her slip her hand into her pocket, fidgeting with something small and colorful.
The rows began to shift, slightly disorganized. Mr. Dawson glanced down at his list, confused.
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