I had not come for a confrontation.
I had told myself that all morning.
I had come to speak.
I had come to honor the graduates.
I had come because Stanford asked, because the company mattered, because the work mattered.
And perhaps, if I was honest, because some small unhealed part of me wanted my parents to see me clearly at least once.
After the ceremony ended, I escaped to a quiet hallway beneath the stadium. The concrete walls held the coolness of shade. Above me, the muffled thunder of families reuniting carried through the structure.
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.
“Dr. Mitchell?”
I opened them.
A young woman in a graduation gown stood a few feet away. Her tassel swung beside her cheek, and her eyes were red as though she had been crying.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t mean to bother you.”
