Part II
She excuses herself repeatedly as she slips along the crowded row, bumping knees and jostling purses. You smile, watching her make her way towards you, and she winks back, stumbling over someone's foot and catching herself on a toddler's head.
Finally, she collapses in the empty seat next to you. She pats the knee of your oldest daughter and hands you her phone. "Her flight just landed. Scott said he'd pick her up on his way here."
"Thank goodness. That's her second cancelled flight this year. She would have been furious to miss this." All of your daughters have a hot temper when the situation calls for it. Like mothers, like daughters.
You lean past Cosima and ask the oldest, "You have their shirts, right?"
She nods, producing two t-shirts from her bag. One for Uncle Scott, and one for your middle daughter (currently barreling her way through the Minnesota airport).
The t-shirts match those that you, Cosima, and your oldest are wearing, as well as the ones your parents are wearing down at the end of the row. Hot pink with teal script, the shirts bear a cartoon drawing of your youngest daughter and the slogan: Team Niehaus-Cormier! Graduation 2038!
Looking down the row at your family, you're warm all over, absolutely tingling with gratitude. It's been twenty years since the days when you could have lost everything. You could have missed all of this. But those dark days are the farthest thing from your mind right now.
You haven't forgotten, nor has Cosima. Nor will you ever. But these days, you think of those times rarely, and always with an odd fondness. Terrible as they were, they brought you together, bound you with ascii code, smoke, and groaning steal.
You wrap your arm around Cosima's shoulders and pull her towards you. She slips her fingers into your free hand, squeezing lightly. Your daughter is chatting happily with your parents in her lilting French, and you are giddy, overwhelmed.
The ceremony is long, but they always are. Scott and your oldest come charging into the room an hour into the program, pushing their way inelegantly down the row. They tug their neon shirts over their heads just in time to hear the Dean of Students introduce the class valedictorian.
Your youngest rises and walks towards the podium, adjusting her cap nervously. The whole lot of you are on your feet, whooping and cheering, stamping your feet. She looks nothing like Cosima, of course, none of them do. But when she reaches the podium, scrunches up her nose and adjusts her glasses, the resemblance is unmistakable.
"If you couldn't tell," she says into the microphone, blushing to match your hot pink shirts and grinning widely, "that's my family over there. Hey, guys. Simmer down, now." She waves, and you and Cosima shout your pride and love for her until your other daughters pull you down into your seats. You are both embarrassing, as usual, and proud of it.
Your girls walk arm-in-arm after the ceremony, chatting happily. As you follow behind, Cosima slips her hand into yours, and bumps your hip lightly.
"We did it!" She's grinning, all teeth and joy, and you're grinning too. "All three of them, graduated, employed, healthy and happy!" She does a little dance and you laugh, joining in.
"What will we do now?" You ask, because you've been wondering these last few weeks, watching your youngest pack up her belongings.
She shrugs, swinging your joined arms like you are children. "We're officially empty nesters now. We can do anything we want. Move somewhere warm maybe or get a puppy."
You smile. Your daughters have stopped their skipping and are waiting for you. "We could adopt a couple more kids," you say in a loud stage whisper, "Start fresh."
Cosima plays along, joking, "A journalist, a nurse, and a history teacher? Not a single scientist among them? Definitely time to start again."
There is a chorus of dissent, and the girls rush you, tackling you both to the ground. This is your family, three beautiful college graduates and two world-renowned scientists, a hot pink giggling blur on the college lawn.