By the time the ceremony began, strangers seemed to know that I was under investigation, that I had brought a baby, and that Gemma had taken my place as the top student.
None of them knew where the story had come from.
That did not stop them from believing it.
When Gemma’s name was called, Pamela stood and applauded before anyone else in the row.
Gemma crossed the stage wearing the white stole and gave the audience a practiced smile.
Spencer recorded her on his phone.
As she returned to her seat, she looked toward me and let her smile sharpen.
Then the graduates ahead of me began moving.
My name was getting closer.
Oliver stirred once but did not wake.
I pressed my palm against the blanket between his shoulders and felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
The laughter started again.
Someone said I should be ashamed of myself.
Someone else wondered aloud whether the baby’s father was in the auditorium.
Then, from a few rows behind me, came the whisper that reached me more clearly than all the rest.
“Just like her mother.”
For a moment, I was six years old again, hearing adults discuss my mother as though every difficult thing that had happened to her was a flaw I had inherited.
I could have turned around.
