“Not yet,” I said.
Dean Bradley studied me. “Are you sure?”
I looked at the grand hall.
“Yes. Let them stay.”
His brows lifted.
I swallowed hard. “I want them to hear my speech.”
For the first time that morning, the dean smiled.
“Then let’s get you ready, Dr. Hensley.”
Backstage became a storm of motion. Someone brought towels. Someone else found a hair dryer. A makeup artist dabbed at my face with tissues while muttering, “Men, honestly,” under her breath. Ms. Carter, the ceremony coordinator, had a spare black dress in her emergency garment bag because apparently graduations involved more disasters than anyone imagined. It was simple, knee-length, and dry. I changed in a side room with numb fingers, leaving my soaked clothes in a plastic bag.
When they placed the doctoral robe over my shoulders, I nearly collapsed.
Not from exhaustion.
From memory.
I remembered studying anatomy at three in the morning while my stepmother shouted that the kitchen smelled like takeout and I needed to clean it. I remembered taking exams after overnight shifts because tuition did not pay itself. I remembered learning to suture with hands that still smelled like dish soap. I remembered sending my father a photo of my first white coat ceremony and receiving only a thumbs-up emoji. I remembered hiding my acceptance letter to medical school because when I told him I was applying, he laughed and said, “Clara, be realistic.”
Be realistic.
I had.
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