But Derek had not created that imbalance. He had benefited from it, yes. He had rarely challenged it. But he had not been the architect.
At least that was what I had told myself on generous days.
He walked toward me slowly.
“That was some speech,” he said.
“Congratulations on graduating.”
He gave a short laugh. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“It seems appropriate.”
“Sarah.”
His voice softened in a way I had not heard in years.
I looked past him toward the open end of the corridor, where sunlight spilled across the floor.
“Did you know?” I asked.
He did not pretend to misunderstand.
“That you were the speaker? No. Not until this morning.”
“This morning?”
He looked down at his cap. “There was a printed program in the hotel lobby. Dad picked one up. Mom saw your name and said it had to be another Sarah Mitchell.”
A faint, humorless smile touched his mouth.
“She said there was no way Stanford would ask you to speak at my ceremony.”
The words should have hurt.
They did, but not sharply. More like touching a bruise and finding it old.
“And you?” I asked.
“I knew it was you.”
