She never once made me feel like a burden. Not when I had nightmares and woke her up shaking. Not when I cut my own hair with her sewing scissors and came out looking like I’d lost a fight with a lawn mower. Not when I outgrew my shoes faster than her paycheck could keep up. To me, she wasn’t just my grandmother. She was a one-woman village.
Once people realized the school janitor was my grandmother, things changed. It wasn’t dramatic at first—just comments thrown around when teachers weren’t listening.
“Careful, Lucas smells like bleach.”
“Mop Boy.”
Someone spilled milk at my locker once and taped a note to it: “Hope you brought your bucket.”
I never told Grandma. The thought of her feeling ashamed of the job that kept us fed was unbearable. If she noticed something was wrong, she never pressed. I came home smiling, helped with dishes, listened to her stories, and made her laugh on purpose. Our kitchen was my safe place.
Still, the words stuck. I counted down the days until graduation like it was a rescue plan.
The one bright spot was Sasha.
She was sharp and confident, funny in a dry, sideways way. People noticed her looks first, but they didn’t see how she helped her nurse mother juggle double shifts, or how she balanced tip money in a worn yellow notebook. Her life wasn’t easy either, just quieter about it.
She met Grandma Doris once while we were waiting in the cafeteria line. Grandma stood nearby with a tray of milk cartons and her mop leaning against the wall.
“That’s your gran?” Sasha asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“She looks like the kind of person who gives second helpings even when you’re full.”
“Oh, she’s worse,” I replied. “She’ll bake you a pie for no reason.”
“I love her already,” Sasha said.
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