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The auditorium was full of applause when my stepson’s name was called. I stood with everyone else, smiling, clapping, watching him walk across the stage in his graduation gown. He looked confident, taller somehow, like the shy little boy I met years ago had finally stepped fully into himself. When he returned to his seat, he glanced around the room, scanning for familiar faces. His eyes met mine for a brief second, then moved on.
I didn’t feel hurt. Not then. Love doesn’t keep score, and it doesn’t demand acknowledgment on cue. Still, as the applause faded and the principal prepared to move on, something settled quietly in my chest. Not resentment. Not sadness. Just clarity.
The sudden movement caught attention. A ripple of murmurs passed through the rows of parents, grandparents, teachers, and students. I walked toward the aisle with measured steps and raised my hand slightly, asking the principal if I could say a few words. He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and stepped aside.
The room fell silent.
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