I already knew what that meant for graduation day. At school, people noticed I was always alone.
Lunch alone. Walking to my car alone. Standing off to the side while everyone else hugged their families and took photos after every pep rally.
I nearly didn’t go at all. “What’s the point,” I told my grandmother that morning, “if no one’s even going to be there for me?”
She squeezed both my hands, despite the tremor in hers. “Do this one for me,” she said quietly.
“Just get your diploma.” I had no idea she’d spent three whole weeks writing a letter.
To someone I hadn’t spoken a single word to in over a year. A letter that had already been answered — days before I even put on my cap and gown.
