I let myself imagine walking into that auditorium with my head up.
The morning of graduation, I left the house forty minutes early with the bouquet clutched in my hands.
Looking back, that was the last peaceful moment I had all day.
When I arrived, the auditorium was bustling.
Families streamed in with cameras and balloons, and I walked down the center aisle holding the flowers against my chest like a shield.
I saw the chair before I saw her.
That was the last peaceful moment I had all day.
The handmade card was still taped to the back, my name written in Ethan’s careful block letters.
EMILY. RESERVED. MOM.
And Vanessa was sitting in that chair.
Her legs were crossed, her phone raised for a selfie, her lipstick the color of a warning sign.
She lowered the phone when she saw me, and her smile widened in that slow, deliberate way I had learned to recognize
