When I was a teenager, he used to nod at me every morning in the hallway.
I never knew much about him.
Years later, when Sophie enrolled at Westbridge High School, I realized he was still there.
Older now.
Gray hair.
Same quiet nod.
I had seen him at parent nights.
School plays.
Sports events.
He seemed to have spent his entire life in those hallways.
“Funny,” I said as I parked.
Sophie looked at me.
“What?”
“Some people just stay.”
She stared through the windshield.
Then quietly said:
“Yeah.”
I should have noticed the way she answered.
I didn’t.
I THOUGHT I KNEW EXACTLY HOW GRADUATION WOULD GO
The school had created a special tradition.
Each graduating senior chose one person who had helped them get through school.
When their name was called, that person would walk beside them across the field.
Obviously, I assumed Sophie had chosen me.
Who else?
Every school event since kindergarten, she had hooked her arm through mine.
When she was too small to see a stage, I lifted her onto my shoulders.
When she cried after her first bad grade, I sat beside her until midnight.
When she got sick, I slept outside her bedroom.
When some boy broke her heart sophomore year, I bought ice cream and pretended not to notice she was crying.
This was our walk.
At least, that was what I believed.
Before she joined the graduates, Sophie kissed my cheek.
“Save me a seat in front.”
“Always.”
I smiled.
She walked away.
And I sat down certain I knew how the day would end.
