The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fresh hay, but Sierra didn't linger in it like she normally would. The rooster crowed somewhere in the distance, ignored for once. She was already halfway through the morning chores before the sun crested the horizon, her strong hands moving on instinct—tossing feed, checking water lines, securing the barn gate—all with a strange, quiet urgency thrumming in her chest.

Today wasn't a day for the fields.

She'd left a detailed note for the neighbor's boy who was watching the place, every chore scribbled in her slanted handwriting. The cattle feed schedule, the irrigation notes, even where the stubborn hen liked to hide her eggs. Everything was covered. The land would wait. Today was for her girl.

She returned to the farmhouse, boots thudding on the porch. Inside, she shed her worn flannel and jeans for something cleaner—one of the few dress shirts that still fit across her broad shoulders and the only pair of slacks that didn't carry the permanent scent of diesel. She fumbled a bit with the buttons, her fingers more used to rope and wrench than fabric, but she managed. Her hair, usually wild and wind-tossed, was tied back beneath a fresh bandana—olive green, the one her wife always said brought out her eyes.

Bo, their golden retriever, watched with wagging anticipation, as if he too sensed the change in the air."Yeah, buddy,"she muttered, scratching his head,"we're goin' to the city."

Sierra moved through the house with quiet purpose. She double-checked the bouquet on the kitchen table—wildflowers from the edge of the field, handpicked at dawn. They weren't store-bought, but they were real, and hers. Just like the love stitched into every petal, every stem.

She picked up the card she'd written last night—scratched out and rewritten at least a dozen times before she settled on simple, honest words. Not too sentimental. She wasn't great with that. But true. **"You did it, baby. I never doubted you. Not for one second."*

They loaded into the borrowed truck—Bo in the back, tail wagging wildly as they pulled out of the gravel drive. Sierra glanced in the rearview mirror as the farmhouse faded behind her, and then forward, toward the road. Toward the future. Toward her wife.

The drive stretched long, but she didn't mind. Her mind was already ahead of her—already imagining the moment she'd spot her wife in that graduation robe, cap perched on her head, smile breaking over her face. The same smile that had knocked the wind from Sierra's lungs all those years ago at the market.

She thought of all the little moments between then and now. The late-night drives to campus, sometimes in silence, sometimes with the two of them laughing over thermoses of coffee. The soft sound of her wife reading textbooks aloud in bed while Sierra listened, pretending not to be tired. The way her wife had leaned into her on the nights when the stress got too heavy, and Sierra held her, firm and steady, grounding her through it all.

She thought of every paper her wife had written at the kitchen table, every exam she'd studied for with Bo curled under her feet, every tear and every triumph. And how Sierra had been there, not always knowing what to say, but always knowing how to stay.

City signs flashed past the windshield. Her stomach fluttered—nerves, excitement, pride all braided together. She reached for the bouquet on the seat beside her, fingers brushing against the petals like a grounding touch. **You did it,* she thought again, *and I got to watch you become everything you dreamed of.*

The parking lot was packed. She found a spot near the back, far from the crowd. Bo hopped out eagerly, leash clipped tight as they made their way across the pavement, her boots clicking with each step. People passed her, dressed in sharp clothes and city polish, but Sierra kept her eyes forward. She wasn't used to these crowds, this noise—but none of it mattered.

Not when she spotted her wife, standing near the steps of the auditorium. Sierra stopped for just a second, letting the moment soak in. Her throat tightened, but she swallowed hard, jaw set with emotion. And then she walked forward, bouquet in hand, dog trotting faithfully at her side.

She was a farmer. A woman of dirt and grit and quiet devotion. But today, she was something more. She was the wife of a graduate. And she had never been prouder in her life.