The graduation ceremony stretched across the manicured lawn of the university quad, rows of folding chairs facing a temporary stage draped in burgundy and gold. I sat somewhere in the middle of the sea of caps and gowns, my diploma cover clutched in sweaty hands, trying to ignore the way my mother kept checking her phone three rows behind me in the family section. The June sun beat down mercilessly, and I could feel sweat pooling under my polyester gown.
My grandmother arrived late, as she always did, but her entrance was impossible to miss. At seventy-eight, Vivien commanded attention without trying. Her silver hair was swept into an elegant chignon, and she wore a cream suit that probably cost more than my entire college wardrobe. She moved through the crowd with the confidence of someone who had built a commercial real estate empire from nothing, her cane more accessory than necessity. I caught her eye as she settled into the seat my father had saved for her, and she winked at me. That wink carried me through the endless speeches and the alphabetical trudge across the stage to collect my diploma.
When they finally called my name, “Maggie Brennan,” I heard her voice rise above the polite applause, shouting with an enthusiasm that made several people turn and smile.
The ceremony ended with the traditional tossing of caps, though I held on to mine, thinking about the deposit I would get back if I returned it undamaged. My parents had already explained multiple times that graduation was expensive enough without throwing away a $40 rental.
I found my family near the refreshment tent, where my grandmother was holding court with several other relatives I barely recognized. She pulled me into a hug that smelled of Chanel and peppermint.
“My brilliant granddaughter,” she announced to anyone within earshot. “Bachelor of Business Administration, summa cum laude. I knew you had it in you.”
