Chapter 2
The walk into the auditorium was the longest walk of my life.
Not because I was afraid.
Because everyone was watching.
Students in caps and gowns.
Parents with cameras.
Teachers trying not to stare.
My uncle Richard stood behind us, holding his cheek.
My mother looked frozen near the entrance.
Her husband, Stephen, whispered something to her.
She did not answer.
Dad tried to pull his hand away.
“Emma,” he whispered, “maybe I should just sit in the back.”
I held tighter.
“No.”
“People are staring.”
“Let them.”
His hand was rough.
Work-worn.
The hand that fixed roofs.
Changed oil.
Packed my lunch.
Signed field trip forms with fingers cracked from winter work.
I was not ashamed of that hand.
I was ashamed I had ever let my mother’s family make me feel like I should hide it.
The principal, Mr. Harris, walked beside us.
“This way,” he said.
Not loudly.
But firmly enough for everyone near us to hear.
Front row.
Center.
A seat had been marked with a white card.
Reserved for Mr. Thomas Parker.
Dad stopped when he saw his name.
His eyes filled.
“You did this?”
“Yes.”
“But your mother said—”
“I stopped letting Mom speak for me.”
He looked at me.
The hurt in his face told me she had spoken for me many times.
Too many.
I helped him sit.
Then I placed the crushed daisies on his lap.
“They’re still beautiful,” I said.
He looked down at them.
“They got stepped on.”
“So did you.”
He tried to smile.
Failed.
Then whispered, “I’m proud of you.”
May you like
I bent and kissed his cheek.
“I know.”
