The day of the graduation was sunny and warm. The auditorium was packed with families, balloons, and the hum of excited chatter.
I sat in the front row, holding two bouquets of flowers, my chest tight with pride.
The girls walked across the stage one by one—first Maya, then Lila. They looked beautiful in their caps and gowns, their faces glowing with a mix of relief and joy.
After the ceremony, they found me in the crowd. We hugged. We cried. They introduced me to their friends, and I tried not to embarrass them.
That’s when I saw her.
Karen was standing near the exit, wearing a simple gray dress, holding a small white box tied with a silver ribbon. She looked older. Thinner. Her hair was streaked with gray.
She walked toward us, her steps uncertain, her eyes fixed on the girls.
I saw Maya’s face freeze. I saw Lila’s grip tighten on my arm.
“Girls,” Karen said softly. “I know I have no right to be here. But I wanted to give you something. Something I’ve been saving for this day.”
She held out the box.
