The applause hit me all at once—sharp, thunderous, impossible to ignore. As I finished the final line of my defense, years of exhaustion fell away in a single breath. The late nights, borrowed money, cramped rooms, and constant doubt suddenly felt justified. I had made it.
People rushed forward with handshakes and congratulations, but my eyes searched only one place—the back of the auditorium.
There he was.
Tatay Ben.
Not my father by blood, but by every sacrifice that ever mattered.
He sat stiffly in a borrowed suit that didn’t quite fit, gripping a hat he clearly wasn’t used to wearing. His hands were rough, his posture unsure, but his eyes shone with a pride so intense it nearly brought me to my knees.
When I waved him forward, he stood hesitantly, unsure if he belonged in a room filled with scholars and polished professionals. He had spent his life blending into construction sites, not spotlighted auditoriums.
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