I had come because Stanford asked, because the company mattered, because the work mattered.
And perhaps, if I was honest, because some small unhealed part of me wanted my parents to see me clearly at least once.
After the ceremony ended, I escaped to a quiet hallway beneath the stadium. The concrete walls held the coolness of shade. Above me, the muffled thunder of families reuniting carried through the structure.
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.
“Dr. Mitchell?”
I opened them.
A young woman in a graduation gown stood a few feet away. Her tassel swung beside her cheek, and her eyes were red as though she had been crying.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t mean to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me.”
She swallowed. “My parents didn’t come either.”
The words entered the air softly, but they struck with force.
I stepped away from the wall.
“They wanted me to go into medicine,” she continued. “I chose operations and sustainability. They said it was a phase. Then they said they were busy. But really, they were disappointed.”
Her fingers tightened around her diploma cover.
