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This is what I don’t have.
At some point, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
A photo from my brother.
A perfectly arranged barbecue spread. Smoke curling up from the grill. People laughing.
My parents were in the background. My dad with tongs in his hand. My mom holding a bowl of salad. They looked relaxed, happy, present.
Wish you were here.
The caption read, followed by a laughing emoji and a flame.
The timestamp on the photo was the same minute my row was told to stand and move toward the stage.
When they finally called my name, Dr. Madison Carter, I walked out into the bright lights and forced a smile so wide it hurt my cheeks. I shook hands with the dean. I took the diploma. I posed exactly like they told us to.
Somewhere in the back of the hall, a professional cameraman panned across the crowd, searching for my cheering section, ready to capture proud parents on the big screen.
After the ceremony, graduates spilled out into the courtyard, swallowed by their families. There were flowers everywhere, confetti, people crying and laughing and hugging. Parents wrapped their arms around their kids like they’d just survived a war together.
I stepped off to the side, clutching my diploma tube, pretending to scroll my phone so I didn’t look as lonely as I felt.
A woman in her 50s, another graduate’s mother, walked past me, then stopped and doubled back.
“Would you like a photo, sweetheart?” she asked gently.
“I can take one of you and your family.”
I forced a grin.
“It’s just me,” I said, lifting the diploma a little.
Her face shifted.
“Surprise,” then something that looked like pity and anger mixed together.
“Their loss,” she said quietly. “Let me take one of you anyway. You deserve a picture.”
I handed her my phone.
I stood in front of the campus fountain in my cap and gown, the sun in my eyes, holding a degree I’d earned with everything I had.
She snapped a few shots and handed my phone back.
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