The first sound Adriana made into the microphone was not a word.

It was a breath.

Small. Shaking. Human.

The kind of breath a person takes when everything inside them is trembling, but they decide to stand anyway.

The auditorium seemed to lean toward her.

Hundreds of people sat frozen beneath the bright overhead lights. Parents held bouquets halfway in their laps. Graduates turned in their seats. The principal stood a few steps behind Adriana with his hand hovering uncertainly near his program, as if deciding whether to interrupt.

My granddaughter stirred against Adriana’s chest, one tiny fist pressing against the edge of the pink blanket.

Adriana lowered her eyes for a moment and touched her lips to the baby’s forehead.