My mother called at 2:07 a.m. and said, “You can c…

At eighteen, I graduated second in my class and my mother skipped the ceremony because Daniel had a baseball game. He didn’t even play. He sat on the bench chewing sunflower seeds while she screamed herself hoarse every time his team scored.

I crossed that stage under fluorescent lights in a too-big honor stole and smiled for photos with nobody from my family there. That was the day I understood that love in our house came with rankings. “Amelia?” my mother said sharply.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ll come?”

I should have said no. I know that now. But family has a way of reaching into old versions of you, the ones still waiting to be chosen, still hoping one day somebody will look up and say, There you are.

We see you. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll come.”

“And wear something simple.”

“Goodnight, Mom.”