The Drive to the Stadium
We drove to the stadium past my old high school, the same place Hailey now attended.
The sight of it carried me backward. I remembered being a teenager there, walking those halls with a backpack over one shoulder, trying to act like I knew who I was.
And I remembered the janitor who used to give me a quiet nod every morning.
Same corridor. Same broom. Same reserved manner.
He still worked there. I had seen him over the years at parent nights, school plays, open houses, every event in Hailey’s life. He was older now, gray-haired, but he still nodded in that same quiet way.
As we passed the school, I glanced at the rearview mirror.
“Funny,” I said. “Some people just stay.”
Hailey did not answer.
I parked and smoothed down my shirt again, as if that could steady me.
In my mind, I had already imagined the day perfectly. Hailey’s name would be announced. She would step forward. Her hand would rest on my arm, and together we would make that proud walk toward the stage.
After everything we had survived, that walk felt like the final page of a chapter I had been writing since the day she was born.
I locked the car and slipped her program into my pocket, certain I understood how the day would unfold.
I did not know she had her own instructions hidden in her sleeve.
