Graduation day is supposed to be one of the happiest moments in a young person’s life. For many, it marks the culmination of years of hard work, sleepless nights, and countless sacrifices. Families gather to celebrate, cheer, and bask in the glow of shared achievement. But for me, that day was etched into memory not because of my cap and gown, not because of the diploma I clutched proudly in my hands, but because of what happened after.
It was the day my father, in a quiet fit of frustration, shattered my trophy — and with it, a piece of the fragile bond we shared. Yet, as painful as that moment was, what hurt far more than the sound of breaking glass was the silence that followed, a silence heavy with grief, regret, and words we never seemed able to say to each other.
I scanned the lot once more, trying to find an authority figure, but none were in sight. My hands shook slightly as I set my bag down. I picked up a heavy object from the ground — a small stone brick that had been left near a patch of landscaping.
The sound of glass shattering broke through the quiet hum of the parking lot. People turned, startled, to see what had happened. I reached in, careful not to cut myself, and opened the door from the inside. The dog’s body was warm, too warm, and its panting frantic. I lifted it gently into my arms, holding it close to my chest as though to reassure it that help had arrived.
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