We knew my father wouldn’t make it to my graduation ceremony. The walk from the parking lot to the stadium would’ve been too much for his failing body. The doctors were clear—he only had weeks, maybe even days left. But despite everything, he kept repeating one wish: he wanted to see me graduate, to watch me walk the stage and receive my diploma.
So, I brought the ceremony to him.
Unsure if it was even possible, I reached out to my college dean and asked a simple question: “Can we move the ceremony to my house?” Within two hours, the answer came back—“We’re on it.”
That morning, when I was supposed to graduate, our front lawn transformed. A sea of maroon—professors, staff, and even a few of my dad’s old classmates—gathered in front of our garage. They set up a podium, laid down a carpet, and placed chairs along the driveway. My robe was wrinkled, and my tassel wasn’t even on the right side. But none of that mattered.
What mattered was what happened when I turned the corner and saw him.
Wrapped in his university blanket, oxygen tank by his side, his eyes already brimming with tears—he held my hand as I walked down the makeshift aisle. When they called my name and handed me my diploma, he gave me a slow, shaky thumbs-up. A silent message full of pride.
And then he whispered something only I could hear:
“Now, open the back pocket.”
Confused, I fumbled for the hidden pocket on my gown. Inside was a letter—folded, yellowed, clearly read countless times. My heart raced as I realized… it was something he had saved for years, waiting for this very moment.
What was in the letter? What message had he held onto all these years?