Someone several rows behind me didn’t bother lowering his voice.
“What is WRONG with that guy?”
My fingers crushed the graduation program in my lap.
I was sitting in the third row of the Willowcrest High School auditorium in Bellmere, surrounded by hundreds of parents, students, teachers, relatives, and raised phones.
And my eighteen-year-old son was walking across the stage—
in a bright red dress.
The hem fell just below his knees.
The skirt moved gently around his legs with each step.
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