Sometimes she fell asleep mid-sentence, glasses slipping down her nose, and I’d gently wake her so she could finish the story.
On Saturdays, she made pancakes shaped like dinosaurs. They rarely looked like dinosaurs. We laughed anyway. She’d wink and say, “Perfection is overrated, kiddo.”
To keep a roof over our heads, she took whatever work she could find. Eventually, she became a custodian.
At my high school.
That’s when the whispers started.
At first, it was quiet — side glances when students saw her pushing her cleaning cart down the hallway. Then it turned louder. Snickers. Comments muttered just loud enough for me to hear.
“Hey, that’s your grandma, right?”
“Does she mop your room too?”
I learned how to keep my face blank. How to pretend it didn’t sting. I never told her. Not once. The idea that she might feel ashamed of the job that fed me was unbearable.
She wasn’t just cleaning floors. She was building my future.
When prom season arrived, the school buzzed with talk of dates, stretch limousines, expensive dresses ordered months in advance.
My friends debated who would be crowned king and queen as if it were a matter of national importance.
I already knew who I wanted beside me.