When Ethan graduated from high school, we weren’t there.
It wasn’t because I didn’t care. It wasn’t even because I forgot.
It was because we were in the middle of moving. Stress, money, logistics—life was loud and overwhelming. We made the wrong call. We left early.
And he walked across that stage without us in the crowd.
I’ve thought about it a hundred times since then. I’ve told myself we did what we had to do. That he understood. That it wasn’t personal.
But the truth is: I wasn’t there. And no explanation feels like enough.
He never threw it in my face. He moved on—like he does.
But I haven’t. Not fully.
Because I believe in showing up. And that day, I didn’t.
Sometimes presence is a ritual. A milestone. A moment you don’t get back.
This one still stings. It’s the one I would do over if I could.
I’ve tried to show up better since then. More fully. With more intention.
And when I talk about presence now, it’s not just because I’ve seen the power of it.
It’s because I’ve lived the ache of its absence.
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