Her name was Lorraine. She was 52 when she took me in. She was already working full-time as a cafeteria cook at the same school I’d eventually attend. We lived in an old house that creaked when the wind changed, and we had no backup plan besides grit and each other.
And she made it work.
At school, people called her Miss Lorraine, or just “Lunch Lady,” like it was an anonymous job title instead of a person.
She was 70 and still came to work before dawn, her thin gray hair tied back with a scrunchie she made herself.
Every apron she wore had a different fabric. Sunflowers. Strawberries. Tiny cats. She said it made kids smile.
And even though she spent her whole day making meals for other people’s children… she still packed my lunch every morning and slipped a sticky note inside.
It was always something sweet or ridiculous.
“Eat the fruit or I’ll haunt you.”
“You’re my favorite miracle.”
We were poor, but she never acted like we were missing out.
When the heater broke one winter, she filled the living room with blankets and candles and called it a “spa night.” My prom dress was $18 from the thrift store, and she stitched rhinestones onto the straps while humming Billie Holiday like she was making couture.
“I don’t need to be rich,” she told me once. “I just want you to be okay.”
I was okay… until high school made it harder.
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