My dad showed up at my graduation in his janitor uniform, straight from work.
I saw him the second I scanned the crowd. Everyone else was dressed in neat button-downs and summer dresses, holding bouquets wrapped in shiny paper. And there he was—standing near the back, work boots scuffed, navy-blue uniform creased from a long shift, ID badge still clipped to his chest. He looked so out of place that my stomach dropped.
He spotted me too.
His face lit up instantly, the way it always did when he saw me, like the whole world narrowed down to one thing that mattered. He lifted his hand and waved—an awkward, enthusiastic wave, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be that proud in public.
I turned away.
I told myself it was just for a second. That I’d wave later. That I’d find him after the ceremony when no one was watching. But the truth was uglier than that. I was embarrassed. Ashamed that my dad cleaned floors and emptied trash cans while other parents talked about law firms and corner offices.
When my name was called, I walked across the stage with my chin high, smiling for the camera, pretending my heart wasn’t pounding for all the wrong reasons. I never looked back into the crowd. I never acknowledged the man who had worked double shifts to make sure I got there.
After the ceremony, I slipped away with friends. By the time I checked my phone, there was a single text from him.
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