Graduation day arrived. As I stood in my cap and gown, listening to the principal give a speech that carefully avoided mentioning the recent "unfortunate events," I felt a strange sense of closure.
A warm breeze blew across the school field, rustling the leaves of the old acacia tree. And on that breeze, I heard it—or felt it, or imagined it. It didn't matter which.
It was a whisper, faint and full of light. "I'm proud of you."
I looked over at the tree. There was nothing there. But for the first time since she left, the emptiness didn't feel like a loss. It felt like a space she had once filled, and had now left behind for me to fill with my own life.
The ceremony ended. We threw our caps in the air. The future was wide open, uncertain, and ordinary. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.