The evening I asked her, she was folding laundry on our couch.
“Grandma,” I said casually, trying not to lose my nerve. “Will you go to prom with me?”
She looked up, blinking. Then she laughed.
“Oh, sweetheart. Prom is for young people. I’d just embarrass you.”
“You could never embarrass me,” I said. “I wouldn’t even be going if it weren’t for you.”
She went quiet after that. Really quiet. I saw something flicker in her eyes — hesitation, maybe fear. After a long pause, she nodded slowly.
“If you’re sure,” she whispered.
On prom night, she stood in our tiny kitchen wearing a simple blue floral dress she’d bought years ago for a church event. She had pressed it carefully, as if ironing courage into the fabric. She smoothed her gray hair back and turned to me.
“I hope I look… appropriate.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You look perfect.”
When we walked into the gymnasium, decorated with silver streamers and fairy lights, conversations faltered. Heads turned. Some students stared openly. A few laughed.
I felt it like static in the air.
But I kept walking.
When the first slow song started, I held out my hand.
“May I have this dance?”
She hesitated, cheeks pink. “Oh, honey…”