“We can both say it,” he replied, kissing my forehead. “Go home. Go rest. It’s your turn now.”
It took a few months of living in the deafening quiet of my apartment to figure out what “my turn” actually meant. But when I remembered the feeling of standing in the back of that auditorium, I finally knew. At forty-two, I filled out the FAFSA and enrolled in the accelerated nursing program.
Two grueling years later, I stood in a different auditorium, wearing a crisp, white uniform. My feet ached from walking hospital floors, not from cleaning them.
When my name was called—Sarah Evans, Licensed Practical Nurse—I walked across the brightly lit stage. I didn’t look at the back wall. I looked directly down at the absolute center of the very front row.
Michael was sitting there, wearing a sharp suit, cheering louder than anyone. Taped to his chair was a paper he had printed himself: Reserved for Michael Evans, Proud Son of the Front Row.
I lifted my certificate high. I looked right at the boy who taught me how to stop hiding.
For you, I mouthed.
He shook his head, pressing a hand to his chest. For us, he mouthed back.
