THEN THEY CALLED HIS NAME
“Ethan Bennett.”
My heart stopped.
He walked onto the stage.
The laughter followed.
He crossed under the lights in Mary’s red dress.
Shook the principal’s hand.
Accepted his diploma.
Then turned.
But instead of joining the other graduates—
Ethan came down the stage steps.
He started walking up the center aisle.
Straight toward me.
Whispers followed him.
Another laugh.
Someone nearby said:
“Is he actually doing this?”
Ethan kept coming.
When he reached the third row—
he stopped in front of me.
For the first time all day—
his composure broke.
His eyes were wet.
“This is for you.”
I stared up at him.
Then he whispered:
“For both of them.”
“Both of what?”
Ethan reached into the pocket of the red dress.
HE PULLED OUT SOMETHING WRAPPED IN TISSUE PAPER
People were still laughing.
For another few seconds.
Ethan carefully opened the tissue.
And when I saw what lay in his palm—
the auditorium disappeared.
A dried yellow daisy.
Flattened almost completely.
One petal missing.
The stem dark with age.
I knew that flower.
My hand flew to my mouth.
“Oh, Ethan.”
Suddenly—
I wasn’t sitting inside Willowcrest High School anymore.
I was months earlier.
Back at Willowcrest Medical Center, during one of Mary’s rare good afternoons.
