After several weeks of waiting, during which her schoolmates were all studying for their 'selectividades' (qualifying exams for Spanish high school graduates to gain admission to university), Hannah proudly received her diploma on June 13, 2008 at the American School of Barcelona in Esplugues de Llobregat, a nearby suburb.
Of her graduating class of 32 - about 85 percent of whom are Catalan or Spanish - Hannah was one of five to receive an award for maintaining a straight-A average during her time at the school. During the ceremony (during which clouds threatened to unleash a late-spring deluge but thankfully held off), she was a point of shining gold in a sea of dark-haired young men and women. The delight with which she gracefully strode onstage to receive her diploma was unmistakable. Her dad couldn't restrain tears of joy and pride. There is something about a high school graduation - all that hope and promise and joy residing in those intelligent young faces - that even the hardest cynic would find impossible to deny.
As for me, a sense of disbelief pervaded me. I could not register that here was my baby daughter, after all the years of struggle and work and hope and fear, striding through the most important door of her life so far. Nor could I get over the idea that this confident, shining beauty was really my own.
Afterwards, the family, joined by Hannah's boyfriend Renato and three of her closest girlfriends, celebrated with a lavish dinner at a restaurant serving 'New Catalan' cuisine. Everything, of course, was washed down with plenty of cava and a fine Spanish rioja or two.
No tears for me until I awoke the next morning, when it hit me: She's leaving. It was a mixture of sadness and incredible joy. I've done it. I've launched my girl into the world.
