They say prom is supposed to be the most magical night of high school — sparkling gowns, rented tuxedos that still smell like plastic, awkward corsages, and that fragile illusion that your whole future somehow depends on one slow dance.
For me, it became unforgettable too.
Just not in the way anyone expected.
I’m eighteen. My world has always been small — a two-bedroom apartment above a laundromat in Columbus, Ohio, and one constant presence: my grandmother, Margaret Collins.
My mother died the day I was born. I’ve never known my father’s name, let alone his face. As far as I’m concerned, my story began and ended with my grandmother.
Early on, she decided we would be enough for each other. That love didn’t need to be a crowd to feel whole.
When other kids drew family trees with branches full of names, mine had only one strong root.
Grandma worked nonstop. She left before sunrise and often came home after dark, her clothes faintly scented with disinfectant and lemon cleaner.
Her hands were always rough, knuckles cracked from chemicals and cold water. But no matter how tired she looked, she would sit beside my bed and read to me.