When they called Brandon’s name—»Dr. Brandon Pierce»—I stood up and cheered louder than anyone else in that room. Tears streamed down my face. Six years—six years of working myself into the ground—had led to this moment.
After the ceremony, there was a reception in the courtyard. I’d spent two weeks’ worth of tips on a simple navy blue dress and a pair of low heels from a discount store. I’d done my hair and makeup carefully that morning, using tutorials I’d memorized.
I wanted to look nice for Brandon. I wanted him to be proud of me, the way I was proud of him.
I found Brandon surrounded by his classmates and their families. Everyone was laughing, taking photos, celebrating. I walked up and touched his arm gently.
«Congratulations, Dr. Pierce,» I said, smiling up at him.
He turned and for just a second, barely a moment, I saw something in his eyes. Not happiness or love. Something else, something that looked almost like embarrassment.
«Grace, hey,» he said, his voice flat. He didn’t hug me, didn’t kiss me. Just turned back to his conversation. «Everyone, this is my wife, Grace.»