I was proud of the college student who worked twenty hours a week, carried a full class load, and still somehow found the strength to call me every Sunday night and ask, “Mom, did you eat?”
And now she was standing on a stage as valedictorian.
My Jane.
When the ceremony ended, the graduates spilled into the courtyard behind the auditorium.
Families rushed forward carrying flowers, cameras, balloons, and handmade signs.
For several minutes, I couldn’t find Jane in the crowd.
Then I heard her voice.
“Mom!”
I turned.
She was running toward me in her black graduation gown, the gold honor cords bouncing against her chest.
I barely had time to open my arms before she crashed into me.
We held each other so tightly that neither of us said anything.
There was nothing left to say.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
When Jane finally stepped back, she was crying again.
