I was thirty-five the night of my son’s graduation.
The auditorium was bright, loud, overflowing with flowers, camera flashes, and proud families who believed the hardest part of parenting was finally behind them.
I sat alone in the third row.
My dress was simple. My shoes hurt. And at my feet, tucked beside my purse, was a diaper bag that didn’t belong to the version of this moment everyone else expected.
