The usher looked barely out of high school. His name tag read Brandon, and he could not quite meet my eyes.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but those seats in the front are no longer available. You’ll have to stand back here.”

I tightened my grip on the graduation program. From the back of the auditorium, I could clearly see Row B. Two chairs. Two reserved name cards. I had watched my son place them there himself earlier that morning after hugging me in the parking lot.

“Front row, second seat from the aisle,” he had said with a smile. “I saved the best spot for you.”

Now the cards were gone. Not completely gone. One of them lay beneath the row ahead, torn neatly in half. My name, Sarah Evans, written in Michael’s careful blue marker, split straight down the middle.

“Those were my seats,” I said quietly. “My son reserved them.”

Brandon shifted uncomfortably.

“The woman in the blue dress said there was a seating mistake.”