The card said, Ask Mom what she stopped making. June had written it after our last argument, when I accused her of filling every hour with other people's projects. Before raising her, I designed window displays for small shops. I stopped after her father left because freelance work seemed unreliable. June found my old portfolio in a closet and kept urging me to draw again. I told her usefulness mattered more than hobbies. She told me that was something tired people said.

I read the line aloud. No one offered comfort, which was exactly what I needed. Rhea handed me a pencil. On the back of the card, I drew the curved handle of June's favorite scissors. My hand shook, and the first line doubled. I expected the room to close around that mistake. Instead, Priya asked how to shade metal without making it look gray. For ten minutes, I explained reflected light while students leaned over the table.

The remaining cards were ordinary. One promised to repair a theater curtain. Another named a shy sophomore June had invited to lunch. The last asked someone to deliver costume fabric to the community center. We assigned the tasks without calling them a legacy. Mateo would finish the curtain with Priya. Rhea would invite the sophomore to join the art club without mentioning June as an obligation. I offered to drive the fabric after the ceremony.

Principal Webb entered carrying June's folded gown. He said the ceremony program listed her name in the usual order, but the committee had reserved a silent pause. Hearing that made my chest tighten. I did not want hundreds of people staring at an absence on my behalf. The students looked equally uneasy. Mateo asked whether we could do something quieter. Outside, the band began warming up, brass notes breaking against the windows. We had forty minutes to choose what honesty would look like in a crowded gym.