Rowan looked up from the letter, his eyes wet, his voice steady despite it.
“‘Wear the red dress if you have to. I don’t care how it looks to anyone else. Just make sure part of me actually makes it across that stage with you. I love you. I’m so proud of both of us. — Ivy.'”
—
The silence that followed lasted long enough that I could hear, distinctly, my own heartbeat in my ears. Then, somewhere near the front of the graduate section, someone began to clap — slowly at first, uncertain, and then spreading, row by row, until the entire stadium rose to its feet in an ovation that had nothing to do with academic achievement and everything to do with watching a boy carry his sister across a stage she’d never gotten the chance to walk herself.
Rowan folded the letter carefully, returned it to the clutch, and accepted his diploma from Principal Okonkwo, who was, by then, visibly fighting his own tears.
He found me in the crowd afterward, still in the crimson dress, diploma folder tucked under one arm.
