I’m 18 years old, and I graduated from high school last week.
People keep asking me, “So what’s next?”
College? Work? Dreams?
I smile, nod, and say something vague. But the truth is, I don’t know how to answer. It doesn’t feel like something new has started. It feels like something important ended too fast… and the world forgot to press play again.
The school halls still smell like the cafeteria. Warm rolls. Cleaning spray. The same smell that clung to my clothes for years.
Sometimes, when I wake up, I swear I hear footsteps in the kitchen. The soft shuffle of slippers. The clink of a spoon against a mug.
Then I remember.
My grandma raised me.
Not part-time.
Not “she helped out.”
Not weekends or holidays.
She was everything.
My parents died in a car crash when I was little. I don’t remember the accident itself—just flashes from before it happened. My mom laughing. My dad’s watch ticking softly on the steering wheel. A song playing low on the radio.
Then suddenly… it was just me and my grandma.
Her name was Lorraine.
She was 52 when she took me in. She already worked full-time as a cafeteria cook at the school I would later attend. She lived in a house so old it creaked whenever the wind changed direction.
There were no backup plans. No savings. No safety net.
Just us.
And somehow, she made it work.
Everyone at school called her “Miss Lorraine,” or worse, just “the lunch lady,” like it was a nameless job instead of the woman who raised half the town with food and kindness.
She was 70 years old and still showed up before sunrise every day. Her thin gray hair was always tied back with a scrunchie she made herself.
Every apron she wore was different. Sunflowers. Strawberries. Little blue dots.
She’d say, “Kids smile more when things are colorful.”
Even though she spent all day feeding other people’s children, she never forgot me. She packed my lunch every single morning and tucked a sticky note inside.
“Eat the fruit or I’ll haunt you.”
“You’re my favorite miracle.”
We were poor, but she never let it feel like lack.
When the heater broke one winter, she filled the living room with candles and blankets and said, “Spa night!”
My prom dress cost $18 from a thrift store. She stayed up late sewing rhinestones onto the straps while humming Billie Holiday.
One night I asked if she ever regretted not going back to school.
She smiled and said, “I don’t need to be rich. I just want you to be okay.”
And I was… until high school.
That’s when it started. Freshman year. Quiet at first.
Kids would pass me in the hallway and whisper, “Careful, her grandma might spit in your soup.”
They called me “Lunch Girl.”
“PB&J Princess.”
Some mocked my grandma’s soft Southern accent. They copied the way she said “sugar” and “honey.”
They laughed at her aprons. Rolled their eyes when she smiled.
The worst part? Some of them were kids who used to play in my backyard. Kids who ate popsicles at our table.
One day, Brittany—who once cried at my birthday party because she lost musical chairs—said loudly,
“So does your grandma still pack your panties with your lunch?”
Everyone laughed.
I didn’t.
Teachers heard it. They saw it. But no one stopped it.
I tried to protect Grandma. She already had arthritis in her hands. Her back hurt after long shifts. I didn’t want to add my pain to hers.
But she knew.
She always knows.
And she stayed kind anyway.
She remembered everyone’s name. Slipped extra fruit to hungry kids. Asked about games and tests. Loved people who barely noticed her.
I buried myself in school. Scholarships. Books. The library became my second home. I skipped parties and football games.
All I heard in my head was her voice:
“One day, you’re going to make something beautiful out of all this.”
Then, senior year came… and everything changed.
It started with chest tightness. She joked about it.
“Probably the chili,” she laughed. “That jalapeño was mad at me.”
But it kept happening.
I begged her to see a doctor. We didn’t have great insurance. She kept saying,
“Let’s get you across that stage first. That’s the priority.”
Then came the morning.
Thursday. I had a capstone presentation. I walked into the kitchen expecting coffee and cinnamon toast.
Instead… silence.
She was on the floor. One slipper twisted under her foot. The coffeepot half full. Her glasses beside her hand.
“Grandma!” I screamed.
My hands shook as I called for help. I tried CPR. I cried her name over and over.
The paramedics arrived fast. Too fast.
They said “heart attack” like it was the end of a sentence.
At the hospital, under bright lights, I whispered, “I love you.”
I kissed her forehead and waited for a miracle.
It never came.
She was gone before sunrise.
People told me I didn’t have to graduate.
But she’d been saving for it all year. Extra shifts. Honor cords. My gown ironed and ready.
So I went.
I wore the dress she chose. Styled my hair the way she liked. And walked into that gym carrying grief like glass.
I was supposed to give the student speech.
Backstage, my prepared words felt empty.
When my name was called, I stepped up and told the truth.
“Most of you knew my grandmother.”
The air shifted.
“She served you thousands of lunches. Tonight, I’m serving you the truth.”
“She was Miss Lorraine. The lunch lady. She raised me after my parents died.”
My voice cracked.
“You mocked her. You laughed. You called her names. She heard you.”
Silence.
“But she never stopped loving you.”
I gripped the podium.
“She was my polar star. But really… she was mine.”
I finished with,
“When someone shows you kindness, don’t laugh. One day, you’ll wish you’d said thank you.”
The gym stayed quiet.
Then came soft applause. Slow. Respectful.
Afterward, they came to me.
Brittany. Tyler. Zoey. All crying.
“We were wrong,” Brittany said.
“We want to honor her. A walkway. Trees. ‘Lorraine’s Way.’”
I whispered, “She would’ve fed you anyway.”
Later, alone at home, I stood in the kitchen.
“Their planting trees for you,” I said.
For the first time… I didn’t feel alone.
I hope she heard me.
And maybe one day, I’ll be someone’s polar star too.