I held that camera in two hands like it was something breakable, and I waited, and I had more pride packed into my chest than the human ribcage is really designed to hold.

They read the names alphabetically, and so they did not come together, but I found each of them anyway across that sea of identical black gowns, the way I had found them in every crowd for twenty-two years.

Rosie cried before she even reached the diploma, of course she did, my tender one, wiping her face with the heel of her hand.

Frankie found me in the audience and waved — that same wave, the checkout-line wave, the I see you out there, Dad wave — and I lifted my bad camera and waved back like a fool.

And Tess crossed the stage with the same serious, level expression she’d worn since she was four years old telling me my plans were flawed, shook the dean’s hand, and took her diploma like she’d come to collect something she’d earned, which she had.

I thought that was the end of it.