Behind me, the woman who had uttered that venomous phrase, “Just like his mother,” shifted uncomfortably in her seat,"s" her silk blouse rustling.
Adrian adjusted his grip on the bundle in his arms. The pink blanket shifted, revealing a tiny, tufted head of dark hair. My granddaughter. She was so impossibly small against the stark blue polyester of his graduation gown, a fragile heartbeat against a symbol of structured, predictable futures.
Adrian cleared his throat. The sound echoed off the high rafters.
“I know what most of you are thinking right now,” he began, his voice surprisingly steady for an eighteen-year-old standing before a crowd of strangers. “You’re looking at this cap, this gown, and this baby, and you’re writing a story in your heads. You’re thinking this is a mistake. You’re thinking it’s a tragedy. Some of you, I know, are thinking it’s a history repeating itself.”
He didn’t look down. He didn’t look ashamed. His gaze scanned the crowd until it locked directly onto mine.
