At graduation, I searched the entire auditorium to see if I recognized anyone. A few days later, my mother texted: “I need $2,100 for your sister’s birthday party.”

On graduation day, I knew what the outcome would be.
From my seat in the Complutense University auditorium, I kept glancing around, despite telling myself not to. All around me, proud families sat—parents leaning forward, cameras poised, bouquets wrapped in cellophane, murmuring words of encouragement. I searched for a familiar face, though I did it more out of habit than hope.

But there was no one.
When my name was called, I stood alone. I clapped quietly to myself, careful not to draw attention. I took my diploma, smiled for the picture, then returned to my seat, enveloped in silence. Inside, the hurt was gone. It had simply faded.

Three days later, my phone rang.

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