Then it grew.
Rows of graduates stood. Families followed. The sound rolled through the stadium, bright and enormous, until I felt it in my ribs.
I smiled because that was what the moment required.
But my eyes found Derek.
He was clapping too.
Slowly. Carefully. His face unreadable.
Behind him, my father had risen halfway from his seat, as though caught between standing and staying hidden. My mother remained seated, hands folded tightly in her lap.
When I walked offstage, the dean touched my shoulder.
“That was beautiful,” he said. “Truly.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
Backstage smelled of sunscreen, dust, bottled water, and fresh flowers. Volunteers moved around me with headsets and clipboards. Someone handed me a program to sign. Someone else asked for a photo.
I did what was expected.
I smiled. I shook hands. I answered questions about Solar Reach, about financing models, about rural electrification and battery storage, about whether I thought clean energy startups could remain mission-driven after major investment.
All the while, I felt the presence of Section 114 like a hand pressed between my shoulder blades.
I had not come for a confrontation.
I had told myself that all morning.
I had come to speak.
I had come to honor the graduates.
