“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “that’s for young people. I’ll just stay home and watch one of my shows.” I insisted. I told her she was the most important person in my life. That I wouldn’t be standing there in a cap and gown without her. After a long pause, she nodded, eyes shining.
The night of prom, she wore an old floral dress she’d kept carefully folded in the closet for years. She smoothed it over her knees, nervous, apologizing for not having something “fancier.” To me, she looked perfect. The banquet hall was filled with music and lights and kids trying too hard to look like adults. Parents and teachers stood along the walls, smiling, taking pictures.
As soon as the music started, guys rushed to the prettiest girls, laughing loudly, showing off. I didn’t move. When the song changed, I turned to my grandma and held out my hand. “May I have this dance?” Her face went red. “Oh, I don’t know if I remember how,” she whispered. “You taught me everything else,” I said. “I think I’ll survive.”
She laughed softly and took my hand. The moment we stepped onto the dance floor, the laughter exploded. “DON’T YOU HAVE A GIRL YOUR AGE?” “HE’S DANCING WITH THE JANITOR!” I heard someone snort. Someone else clapped sarcastically.
My grandma’s hand trembled in mine. Her shoulders dropped, and she stopped moving. “Sweetheart,” she murmured, voice cracking, “it’s okay. I’ll just go home. You should have fun with your friends.” That’s when something inside me snapped. I squeezed her hand. “Please don’t leave,” I said quietly.
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