The call came two weeks before my graduation ceremony, and Kevin didn’t even bother with pleasantries. My brother’s voice had that familiar edge of certainty, the tone of someone who’d already decided the outcome and was merely informing me of the plan rather than asking for my participation. “I booked a surprise anniversary trip to Hawaii for Algra,” he announced, words tumbling out in a rush that left no space for objection.
“Five days. I need you to watch the kids. I’ll drop them off the night before we leave.”
I was standing in my kitchen after a twelve-hour shift, still wearing my work clothes, holding a phone against my shoulder while I tried to open a container of leftovers.
The dates he rattled off made my hands freeze mid-motion. “Kevin, those are the exact dates of my graduation ceremony,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’ve had this on the calendar for months.
You know this. I sent you the invitation.”
He laughed—actually laughed, like I’d told a joke he didn’t quite get. “So walk at the December ceremony instead.
They do them twice a year, right? Problem solved.”
My chest tightened. Six years.
Six years of night classes after working full days as a legal assistant. Six years of coming home exhausted and forcing myself to read dense textbooks until midnight. Six years of sacrificing weekends and holidays and any semblance of a social life to earn my master’s degree in public policy.
And my brother was suggesting I reschedule it like it was a dentist appointment. “Kevin, I can’t just ‘walk at the next one.’ I’ve already invited fifty people. Grandma Lynette is flying in from Florida.
Friends have taken time off work. This isn’t something you reschedule.”
“Look,” he said, and I could hear the irritation creeping in now, “the Hawaii tickets are non-refundable. Algra’s been stressed, and I promised her this trip.
Your education will still be there in December. It’s just a walk across a stage and a piece of paper. My anniversary only happens once a year.”
The casualness of his dismissal hit me like cold water.
Just a walk across a stage. Just a piece of paper. As if the degree itself was the only thing that mattered, not the ceremony that marked the end of a journey that had nearly broken me a dozen times.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
