My father came to my graduation straight from work, still in his janitor uniform. Among parents in crisp clothes and flowers, he looked out of place. When he saw me, his face lit up, and he waved awkwardly, full of pride. I looked away, embarrassed by his work, and didn’t acknowledge him as I walked across the stage.
Afterward, I ignored his message: “So proud of you. Call me when you can.” Life went on—new city, demanding job—but I told myself he understood.
Then I got the call: “Your father has had a stroke.” At the hospital, I stayed by his side, holding the hand that had guided me through life. On the second night, I found a photo of me at graduation in his wallet, with five words on the back: “Proudest day of my life.”
I cried silently, realizing he had always been proud—despite my shame and silence. On the fourth morning, his fingers twitched, his eyes opened, and I whispered: “I’m sorry, Dad.”
He squeezed my hand gently: “You were just nervous. I understand.”
I promised myself I would never feel ashamed of him again. The man who worked tirelessly for me, who showed up exhausted but full of love, never needed applause—he just showed up.