Everyone else had someone. Parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters—someone screaming their name from the bleachers.
I had no one. My parents died in a car accident seven months before graduation. Since then, it had just been me and my grandmother.
She wanted to come, she tried, but some mornings she could barely walk to the mailbox without stopping to catch her breath. So I told her not to worry; I told her I understood.
The truth? I almost skipped graduation entirely. “What’s the point?” I asked. “No one will even notice if I’m there.”
Grandma squeezed my hands, her eyes filled with tears. “Go,” she whispered. “One last day. Do it for me.”
So I did. I walked across the stage trying not to cry, while the applause sounded polite, routine, and exactly the same as for everyone else.
I accepted my diploma, turned to leave, and wondered how quickly I could get back to my empty car.
Then… two hands covered my eyes from behind. I froze as a familiar voice whispered into my ear, “Guess who finally made it?”
My heart stopped. I knew that voice, but it couldn’t be—not after everything that had happened, and not after the last conversation we had.
Slowly, I turned around, and the person standing behind me changed everything I thought I knew about the past year.
Only later did I discover my grandmother had secretly written one letter to the one person I believed would never forgive me.
(A year-long secret is about to be revealed! Click “Next Page” to continue reading…)
