Ryan reached into one of the boxes.
He pulled out several photographs.
The first showed me sitting in the university library with books stacked around me.
The second showed me outside a lecture hall.
In another, I was laughing with three classmates after an exam.
I touched the edge of the photograph.
“Where did you get these?”
“We contacted people from your program,” Ryan said.
“When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
David gestured toward the house.
“The tables are for food. The chairs are for guests. The boxes have decorations.”
My anger slowly gave way to disbelief.
“You planned a graduation party?”
They both nodded.
I wanted to feel happy.
Part of me did.
But another part remembered four birthdays.
Four Christmases.
Years of silence.
“You could have called me.”
David’s face fell.
“We should have.”
“You could have come by once.”
“I know.”
“One birthday.”
“I know.”
“One Christmas.”
“I know.”
My voice cracked.
“One ordinary Tuesday, David.”
His composure broke.
“I know.”
The anger I had been carrying for years suddenly felt heavier than ever.
“Do either of you understand what those years were like?”
Neither answered.
“I walked into classrooms where some people laughed at me. I spent nights wondering whether I had made a fool of myself. I nearly failed exams. I sat at that kitchen table at one in the morning asking whether I had become some ridiculous old man pretending he still had time.”
Ryan wiped at his eyes.
“But I kept going because school gave me something after your mother died.”
He looked at me.
“A reason to get up.”
