Vance looked at me, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. He glanced nervously at Eleanor Harrington, who was now gripping the armrests of her chair, glaring daggers at my back.
But the optics of a physical altercation—of wrestling a premature baby from a student and arresting his mother on stage—were too terrible even for a man as bought-and-paid-for as Vance. He swallowed hard, slowly lowering his arm, and stepped aside with a look of profound, bitter distaste.
“Thank you, Mom,” Ethan whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears.
“Go,” I said fiercely, nodding toward the podium. “Show them.”
Ethan ascended the wooden steps. His boots made a heavy, definitive thud against the wood. The school board president, looking utterly bewildered, handed him his diploma cover without making eye contact.
Protocol dictated that Ethan was to take the cover, shake hands, and walk down the opposite side of the stage.
