The auditorium at Westlake High in Seattle was steaming hot.
I stood at the wooden podium in my blue graduation gown, the valedictorian medal cold against my chest, and I searched the front rows for my parents.
My mother, Diane Turner, was scrolling through her phone with her thumb moving in lazy circles.
My father, Robert Turner, was typing with both thumbs, his face lit by the pale glow of the screen.
Neither one of them looked up at me.
I adjusted the microphone and forced my voice to stay steady.
‘Everything I have achieved,’ I said, ‘began with the people who taught me to keep going.’
A few teachers in the third row smiled politely.
My best friend, Jenna Miller, gave me a small thumbs-up from the second row.
Then my parents stood up.
For one single, hopeful second, I thought they were walking toward the stage.
Maybe they wanted to hug me.
Maybe they wanted to hear the rest.
Instead, Robert leaned toward Diane and whispered, ‘We can beat the traffic.’
Diane nodded and grabbed her purse.
They walked out before I finished my speech.
The words on my printed pages blurred into a gray mess.
I almost stopped speaking right there.
My throat tightened and my hands began to tremble against the podium.
But in the back row, a man in a charcoal suit held up his phone.
He was not filming me.
He was filming my parents leaving the auditorium.
That strange fact kept me upright until the applause finally came.
After the ceremony, families crowded the courtyard with flowers and cameras and shiny balloons.
I walked through them alone, holding my diploma like a shield.
My eyes searched the parking lot.
I found my parents beside their silver sedan, already unlocking the doors.
I walked up to them, still wearing my gown, still wearing the medal.
‘You left,’ I said.
Diane shrugged one shoulder without looking at me.
‘It’s just high school, Olivia,’ she said.
Robert opened the driver’s side door and tossed his phone onto the seat.
