Adrian looked straight at me.
“My mom was seventeen when she had me. A lot of people looked at her and saw a mistake.”
He swallowed hard.
“I saw a miracle.”
That broke me open.
“If I can be even half the parent she was,” he said, “my daughter is going to be just fine.”
For one second, nobody moved.
Then one person stood.
Then another.
Then another.
Until the whole auditorium was on its feet.
Clapping. Crying. Looking at him differently than they had thirty seconds before.
The same people who laughed couldn’t even raise their eyes.
After the ceremony, the rest of it blurred.
Teachers hugged him. Parents avoided my face. One woman—maybe the same one who whispered behind me—hurried past us with her head down.
