"What? You… lied to me?"
Everyone turned.
One of the older teachers from the school was walking down the steps toward us.
"You graduated here 18 years ago with a baby in your arms." She gestured to Dad. Then she nodded at the woman. "And you, Liza, lived next door to him. You dropped out of school before graduation. You disappeared that summer. Along with your boyfriend."
The murmuring in the stands grew louder.
And just like that, the shape of the story shifted.
I turned back to my dad.
"You graduated here 18 years ago with a baby in your arms."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.
Dad swallowed hard. "Because I was 17. I didn't know what I was doing, and I didn't know how anyone could walk away from a baby. And I thought if you believed at least one parent chose to keep you, it might hurt less."
A broken sob escaped me. I wrapped my arms around my midsection.
"And later?" I whispered. "Why didn't you tell me when I was older?"
"After a while, I didn't know how to tell you something that might make you feel unwanted." He looked back at me then. "In my heart, you were mine the moment I carried you through that graduation."
