I’m 18 years old, and I graduated from high school last week.
Everyone keeps asking me the same question: “So what’s next?”
I smile, nod, and say something polite, but the truth is—I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like anything new has begun. It feels like something important ended too fast, and the world forgot to press play again.
The hallways still smell like the cafeteria—warm rolls, overcooked pasta, and that sharp cleaning spray that never quite fades. Sometimes, when I walk into the kitchen at home, I swear I can hear her footsteps. The soft shuffle of slippers. The hum of an old song.
But I know better.
My grandma raised me. Not part-time. Not “she helped out sometimes.” Not shared 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 broken pieces from before it happened. My mom laughing. My dad’s watch ticking against the steering wheel. A song playing low on the radio.
Then suddenly, it was just my grandma and me.
She was 52 when she took me in. Already tired. Already working full-time as a cafeteria cook at the very school I’d later attend. She lived in an old house that creaked when the wind changed directions, like it was always sighing.
There were no backup plans. No safety net. Just the two of us and a world that kept moving like nothing had happened.
And somehow, she made it work.
Her name was Lorraine.
At school, people called her “Miss Lorraine,” or worse, just “the lunch lady,” like it was some faceless job instead of the woman who became my whole world.
She was 70 and still showing up before dawn, her thin gray hair tied back with a scrunchie she made herself. Every apron she wore was different—sunflowers one day, strawberries the next.
“These make the kids smile,” she used to say.
Even though she spent all day feeding other people’s children, she still packed my lunch every morning. And every single lunch came with a sticky note.
“Eat the fruit or I’ll haunt you.”
“You’re my favorite miracle.”
“Be kind today, even if they aren’t.”
We didn’t have much money, but she never acted like we were missing anything.
When the heater broke one winter, she lit candles, piled blankets in the living room, and said, “Welcome to our spa night.”
My prom dress cost $18 from a thrift store. She stayed up late sewing rhinestones onto the straps, humming Billie Holiday under her breath.
“I don’t need to be rich,” she told me once when I asked if she ever regretted not going back to school. “I just want you to be okay.”
And I was.
Until high school made it harder.
It started in freshman year. Quiet comments. Soft laughs.
Kids passed me in the hallway whispering, “Better not talk back—her grandma might spit in your soup.”
Some called me “Lunch Girl.” Others went with “PB&J Princess.”
They mocked her Southern accent. The way she said “sugar” and “honey.” They rolled their eyes when she smiled too much.
Some of them were kids I’d grown up with. Kids who once ran through my backyard and begged her for popsicles.
One day, Brittany—who had cried at my eighth birthday party because she lost musical chairs—laughed in front of everyone and said, “So does your grandma still pack your panties with your lunch?”
Everyone laughed.
I didn’t.
Teachers heard it. They always did. But no one stopped it.
I tried to protect my grandma from it. She already came home exhausted, hands swollen from arthritis, back aching from standing all day. I didn’t want to add cruelty to her load.
But she knew.
And she stayed kind anyway.
She remembered every kid’s name. Slipped extra fruit to the hungry ones. Asked about their games. Loved them even when they didn’t deserve it.
So I worked harder. I buried myself in books and scholarships. I skipped parties. Missed homecoming. Lived in the library.
All I could hear was her voice saying, “One day, you’re gonna make something beautiful out of all this.”
Then, in the spring of senior year, everything changed.
It started with tightness in her chest.
“Probably the chili,” she joked. “That jalapeño was mad at me.”
But it didn’t stop.
She pressed her hand to her ribs when she thought I wasn’t looking. Winced while stirring pots.
I begged her to see a doctor.
“Let’s get you across that stage first,” she said. “That’s the priority.”
Then came the morning.
It was a Thursday. I had a capstone presentation. I walked into the kitchen expecting coffee and cinnamon toast.
Instead, there was silence.
She was on the floor. One slipper twisted beneath her foot. The coffee pot half-full. Her glasses beside her hand.
“Grandma!” I screamed.
My hands shook as I called for help. I tried CPR. I begged her to stay.
The paramedics arrived too fast.
They said “heart attack” like a period at the end of a sentence.
I whispered, “I love you.”
I kissed her forehead.
She was gone before sunrise.
People told me I didn’t have to go to graduation.
But she’d saved for it all year. Ironed my gown. Set my shoes by the door.
So I went.
I wore the dress she chose. Pinned my hair the way she used to. Walked into that gym with grief holding my bones together.
I’d been chosen to give the student speech weeks earlier.
When they called my name, I stepped into the spotlight and threw my notes away.
I looked at the students who laughed. The teachers who watched. The parents who didn’t know me.
And I said, “Most of you knew my grandmother.”
The room shifted.
“She served you thousands of lunches,” I continued. “So tonight, I’m serving you the truth.”
I told them who she was. What she did. How she loved.
“She heard you,” I said. “Every joke. Every laugh.”
No one moved.
“She taught me that love doesn’t need applause.”
My voice broke.
“She died last week. And she mattered.”
Silence.
Then slow applause. Not loud. Not proud. Just heavy.
Afterward, Brittany came to me crying.
“We were cruel,” she said. “We didn’t mean to be.”
Others followed. Apologies. Tears.
“We want to build something,” they said. “A tree-lined path to the cafeteria. Lorraine’s Way.”
I thought of her voice. Her kindness.
“She would’ve fed you anyway,” I said.
That night, I stood in our quiet kitchen and whispered, “They’re planting trees for you.”
The apron hook was empty.
But for the first time, I didn’t feel alone.
And maybe, if I try hard enough, I can be someone’s polar star too.