Graduation Day
Their college graduation arrived on a bright May afternoon.
The lawn was packed with families. Cameras flashed. Parents carried flowers. Students adjusted their caps and gowns while pretending not to be emotional.
I wore a cream-colored suit the girls had picked out for me. They said I looked elegant. I felt nervous — not because of the crowd, but because the day felt too large for my heart.
Twenty-two years earlier, I had held three abandoned babies and wondered how I’d survive the week.
Now those same girls stood beside me in black gowns and blue sashes, holding bouquets of pink and white roses.
“Mama, stop crying,” Lily teased, though her own eyes were wet.
“I haven’t started yet,” I said.
Rose hugged me. “That’s your pre-crying face.”
Grace squeezed my hand. “Save some tears for later.”
I laughed, not knowing what she meant.
We took photos in front of the old stone building. I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. For once, I let myself feel the full weight of everything we’d built together.
We had survived.
More than survived.
We had bloomed.
