Instagram. My mom’s handle.
For a second, I let myself imagine it: a blurry photo of me in my cap and gown, the caption something like, “So proud of my graduate.” Maybe not heartfelt, but performative pride still counts as a kind, right?
The line moved. Another name. Another round of cheering.
I swiped my thumb across the screen.
The photo that popped up was not of me.
It was my family at the airport.
My mom, my dad, my little sister Lily, all clustered together under a big Departures board. They were hugging, kissing her cheeks, holding up a pair of printed boarding passes like trophies. My mom had her phone angled just right, lips pursed in the half-duck-face she thought made her look younger.
The caption read: “Italy, baby!!! So proud of our girl! She deserves the world!”
Below that, in the comments, my aunt had typed, “So exciting! You must be so proud of your daughters!” And right under it, beneath the tiny gray “See replies” text, I saw my mother’s response:
“She’s the only one who makes us proud.”
The words looked small on the screen. They felt enormous.
Someone behind me whistled for their cousin. The dean’s speech droned on somewhere far away, a low hum under the roar of blood in my ears. For a second, my vision narrowed, the world shrinking to my phone screen and the tight ache in my chest.
“Aren’t those your family?” the girl next to me whispered. Her elbow nudged my sleeve. I hadn’t realized she’d leaned over to peek; we’d just shared a joke earlier about tripping onstage, so I’d temporarily forgotten that I was supposed to guard my vulnerabilities.
On my screen, Lily’s face glowed with excitement, her hair perfectly blown out, her arms around our parents. They hadn’t even bothered to lie about where they were.
I felt my lips stretch into a smile I’d used a hundred times before.
“Yeah,” I said lightly. “That’s them.”
I locked the phone before she could read the comments.
It wouldn’t have mattered if she had. No one in that auditorium would have understood the weight of one simple sentence. It wasn’t the first time my mother had turned my sister into a pedestal and me into a footnote. It was just the first time she’d done it during my graduation.
The dean said my name again, this time calling us by rows.
“Row four, please stand and proceed to the stage.”
Chairs scraped. Students around me shuffled awkwardly in their robes. I stood, my diploma case suddenly heavier than it should have been. My fingers moved almost without my consent—muscle memory, that’s what it felt like—as I slid my thumb back to the home screen.
Banking app.
