The Empty Chair I Pretended Not to Notice
Graduation was supposed to be our victory.
I had finished near the top of my class and received an academic scholarship to Ohio State University. It didn’t cover everything, but it was enough to make college possible without placing the entire burden on Dad.
For weeks, he talked about graduation as though I were being honored at the White House.
He bought a new suit from a department store and spent two evenings debating which tie looked best.
“The blue one makes you look trustworthy,” I told him.
“What does the red one make me look like?”
“A man who argues with the cashier over expired coupons.”
He wore the blue one.
On the morning of the ceremony, he stood in the doorway while I adjusted my graduation cap.
For a moment, he didn’t speak.
Then he looked away and cleared his throat.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Something in my eye.”
“Dad, we’re indoors.”
