Mom had strung white lights across the backyard in our small Ohio suburb, set out paper plates, and placed my cap on top of the cake like it was a crown. Neighbors milled around with plastic cups of lemonade. It looked like a celebration.
Dad started drinking before the guests even arrived.
By the time it was time for photos, he was flushed and loud. He raised his beer bottle and said, “To family. To the people who actually show up.” His eyes locked on mine when he said actually. Then he pulled my younger sister, Maddie, against his side. “And to Maddie—for keeping this family together. Not chasing some fantasy world with fancy degrees.”
A couple of his buddies chuckled.
My stomach dropped. “It’s not a fantasy,” I said evenly. “It’s a diploma.”
“A diploma doesn’t pay the bills,” Dad shot back. “Work does. Sacrifice does. You don’t get to act better than us because you went off to college.”
My hands were shaking—not from fear, but from the weight of what I knew.