My heart shattered. I felt the blood drain from my face. Was she ashamed of me? Was my suit too old? Had I embarrassed her somehow?
“I don’t understand,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “I’m your father.”
She grabbed my hand, her grip tight. “Exactly. You’re my father. You’re the one who stayed up late helping me with science projects. You’re the one who worked double shifts to pay for my books. You’re the one who learned how to braid hair.”
She pulled me toward the backstage entrance instead of the seats. A professor was waiting there, holding a spare graduation gown.
“I told the Dean I wouldn’t walk across that stage alone,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I told him that this degree isn’t just mine. It’s ours. You didn’t just watch me grow up, Dad. You did the work. You earned this just as much as I did.”
I stood there, frozen, as she helped me put the gown over my best shirt.
When they called her name, I didn’t watch from the front row. I walked across the stage holding her hand. And when she took her diploma, she held it up and shouted to the crowd, “We did it!”
It wasn’t just her graduation anymore. It was the proudest moment of my life.
Would you like me to try writing a different ending, perhaps a more dramatic or mysterious one?
