The auditorium buzzed with nervous energy and proud anticipation as I clutched the graduation program in my lap. I sat in the second row, trying not to cry already. My son, Daniel, was graduating from college with honors. I could barely contain my joy, and yet, an ache pulled at my chest.
The seat beside me remained empty. Mark, my husband, had been gone for three years now. Cancer took him quietly and swiftly, but moments like this brought his absence roaring back.
“You’d be so proud of him, Mark,” I whispered, eyes searching the crowd. “We did good.”
The dean took the stage, launching into the expected speeches—visions of potential, gratitude, hope. But I barely listened. My eyes remained fixed on the line of students near the stage, scanning for Daniel’s smile.
That’s when I noticed her.
A young woman stood just beyond the curtain, half-shrouded in shadows. Something about her presence felt out of place. She looked pale and unsure, clutching a bundle close to her chest—a baby, wrapped tightly in a soft blue blanket.
At first, I thought she must be a relative of another graduate, perhaps an overwhelmed sister or new mother trying to attend despite the chaos. But something about her eyes—unblinking