Ethan came downstairs wearing khaki pants, a white button-down shirt, and the navy tie Dad had worn to church.
That nearly ruined Mom before we reached the car.
“You look handsome,” I told him.
“I know.”
“Very humble too.”
“I know that also.”
He carried nothing.
That made me nervous.
“Where’s the gift?”
He looked at Mom.
Mom looked straight ahead.
“In the car,” Ethan said.
“Where?”
“Somewhere.”
“Is it breakable?”
“Maybe.”
“Ethan.”
He grinned.
“You ask too many questions.”
The auditorium was packed.
Nearly every seat was filled.
Parents stood along the back wall.
Teachers moved through the aisles trying to keep younger children quiet.
A projector displayed childhood pictures of the graduating class.
We sat alphabetically near the front.
Families waited along the side of the auditorium until their student’s name was called.
One by one, people walked onto the stage.
There were speeches.
There were videos.
There were tears.
