The principal, who had been standing a few yards away, approached us.
Her expression was careful but warm.
“There is still one diploma left to present,” she said.
I glanced toward the stage.
Students and families were waiting.
The principal looked at Dad.
“Mason, eighteen years ago you crossed this field carrying Eleanor because she had no one else.”
Then she turned to me.
“I think it would be fitting for the two of you to cross it together today.”
Applause began near the front row.
It spread through the stadium until nearly everyone was standing.
Dad looked embarrassed.
“I don’t think this is part of the ceremony.”
“It is now,” the principal replied.
I slipped my arm through his.
Vanessa remained on the grass behind us, surrounded by medical staff who had come forward to help her stand.
I did not know whether I would be a match.
I did not know whether I would ever forgive her.
I did not even know how long it would take me to forgive Dad for hiding part of the truth.
But I knew who would stand beside me while I worked through all of it.
Dad and I walked toward the stage.
Halfway there, he held up the cracked photograph.
“Do you think we look less terrified this time?” he asked.
