On Friday morning, I found myself driving toward the community college. I parked my truck near the back of the lot, far away from the entrance. I sat there with the engine running, watching the families walk toward the auditorium.

I saw my mother first. She was wearing her good blue dress, the one she only wore to weddings and funerals. She was walking slowly, holding Sarah’s arm.

Sarah was wearing her dark green graduation gown. She looked beautiful. She looked like a stranger.

I watched them walk inside. I stayed in my truck for two hours, listening to the radio, waiting for the ceremony to end.

When the crowd finally filtered back out into the sunshine, I saw them again. My mother was holding a bouquet of white roses. She handed them to Sarah and hugged her tightly. Sarah was smiling. It was a real, bright smile, the kind I hadn’t seen on her face in years.

I shifted the truck into reverse and backed out of the space. I did not want them to see me. I did not belong there.

The divorce was finalized six months later. It was remarkably clean. Sarah did not want alimony. She had her job at the hospital now, working the night shift in the emergency room.

The house on Oak Street sold quickly. We split the equity down the middle, just like the lawyers said we had to. I moved into a small, one-bedroom apartment near the highway, not far from the diner where I used to meet Jessica.

I do not see Jessica anymore. That ended the week after the breakfast. Once the secret was out, the excitement evaporated. It turned out we did not have much to say to each other when we were not hiding.

My mother called me on my birthday. We talked for five minutes about the weather and her garden. She did not mention Sarah, and I did not ask. There was a wall between us now, thick and silent, built out of three years of secrets.

Sometimes I drive past the hospital at night. I see the bright emergency room entrance, the ambulances parked in the bay. I wonder if Sarah is in there, wearing her clinical scrubs, taking someone’s pulse, making someone feel safe.

I still have the table we bought for the kitchen on Oak Street. It is too big for my small apartment kitchen. It sits in the corner, holding a pile of junk mail and my keys.

I think about that Saturday morning at the Cracker Barrel every time I pour syrup. I keep waiting to feel something huge. Anger, or regret, or maybe even relief. But mostly, I just feel tired.

I went to the grocery store yesterday and saw a blue notebook on the school supply aisle. I stood there for a minute, staring at the cover, before I turned around and walked away.