"I know, Dad."
"But I'm glad you said it, honey," he said.
I leaned back to look at him. "You are?"
Dad smiled through wet eyes. "I would've preferred a slightly less dramatic blood pressure experience, but yes."
I laughed so hard through my tears that people nearby turned to look, and for once I didn't care at all.
"But I'm glad you said it, honey."
When we finally headed toward the parking lot, one of the girls from my class hurried over, mascara smudged at the corners.
"Claire," she said. "I didn't realize..."
I looked at her for a long second. Not mean. Not gentle either. Just honest.
"That's kind of the point," I said.
She nodded like that line had found its mark. Dad glanced at me once we reached the car.
"Was that your version of grace?" he asked.
I slid into the passenger seat. "It was my graduated version."
Dad laughed, started the car, and squeezed my hand.
"That's kind of the point."
On the drive home, the bracelet on my wrist caught the light from the street. I turned it over with my thumb and looked at Dad's hands on the steering wheel, the same hands that packed lunches, braided hair, and clapped the loudest at every concert, no matter how off-key the choir was.
My classmates had spent years acting like I should be embarrassed of where I came from. They were wrong.
When we pulled into the church lot, Dad shut off the engine and said, "Ready to go home, sweetheart?"
I smiled and answered, "Always, Dad… always."
