My dad dumped me on the highway in my cap and gown just to make room for my sister’s giant orange Hermès box, then leaned over with a smirk and said, “Bentleys don’t carry failures—take the bus, Alyssa.”

The gravel snapped under my heels because my father did not simply stop the Bentley, he forced the brakes down as if the machine had personally offended him. One moment we were gliding along the interstate wrapped in the silence of polished leather and quiet power, and the next moment the car jerked violently onto the shoulder while stones rattled beneath the chassis.

My graduation cap slid crooked on my head and the tassel brushed my cheek while my black gown folded around my knees. The commencement program from the university rested in my hands with thick paper and gold letters spelling the word commencement like it meant permanence.

My father never looked at it. He did not look at me either.

“Get out of the car,” he said in a calm voice while staring at the road ahead as if I had already vanished.

I blinked and said slowly, “We are still on the highway, are you serious right now?”

He turned his head slightly but his eyes moved toward the back seat instead of toward my face. An enormous orange Hermès box filled the seat behind me like a monument.

“We need the space for Courtney’s graduation present,” he said in a tone that suggested the situation required no further explanation.