Dad came toward me but stopped before touching my shoulder. "Naomi, I'm sorry," he said. "Not just for today. I'm sorry I let you handle too much alone."
That apology hurt more than the coffee. I had imagined him saying something like it a hundred different ways, usually during sleepless nights when he wasn't home to hear me crying. I wanted to be angry enough to reject it, but I was exhausted by the effort of wanting so little from him.
"I don't need you to fight with everyone," I told him. "I needed you to believe me."
"I know."
"You always say we'll talk. Then we never do."
"I know that too," he said. "And I have to change it, not just say it."
He gave me a clean towel and waited while I wrapped the gown in it. The stain was too deep and too broad to wash out before the ceremony. I took my simple navy interview dress from the closet, the one I had bought for the scholarship panel, and changed behind the bathroom door. When I emerged, Dad had placed my shoes and graduation cap beside his folder. Brielle was standing by the damaged handbag, wiping uselessly at its lining. Celeste had gone downstairs, saying she needed air.
Before we left, Dad picked up the lavender gown, folding it the way he had seen me fold fabric when I worked. He did it awkwardly, but he did not rush. At the bottom of the fold, the little silver star caught the light. His fingers stopped on it.
"Your grandmother sewed this?" he asked.
I nodded.
He looked at the stain again, and I watched him understand that the cost of the dress had never been the point. "We'll keep it safe," he said. "We won't decide what happens to it until you're ready."
We drove to the school without Celeste or Brielle. Dad didn't insist that I explain every insult or every disappointment while I was still trying to breathe evenly. He stopped at a small bakery near the campus, bought two bottles of water and a pastry, and handed me the bag. I could not remember the last time he had noticed whether I had eaten breakfast.
"Grandma June is meeting us there," I said after a while.
"I know. I called her."
"What did you tell her?"
"The truth. And that I have a lot of work to do as your father."
I looked out at the rows of banners along the road, each one celebrating a graduating student. Until that morning, I had pictured my father smiling beside me in photographs while my lavender dress caught the sunlight. Now I had coffee on my memory and a borrowed sense of calm. He had defended me, but I did not yet know whether he would keep defending me once the room was quiet and Celeste started telling him her own version again.