“What’s that?”
“You don’t leave family behind.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he smiled slowly.
“Well,” he sighed, “I guess a promise is a promise.”
Last Friday night, I pushed Grandpa’s wheelchair through the doors of the high school gym.
The room was glowing with fairy lights and music. Couples in tuxedos and dresses filled the dance floor.
Grandpa wore his old navy suit—the one he used to wear to church years ago. I wore a soft blue prom dress we picked out together.
For a moment, I felt nervous.
But then something unexpected happened.
People started clapping.
Some of my classmates smiled warmly. A few teachers even wiped their eyes.
One of the chaperones said, “Now that’s what real love looks like.”
Grandpa tipped his head politely like a gentleman greeting a crowd.
For a few minutes, everything felt perfect.
Until Amber noticed us.
Amber and I had been competing since freshman year. Grades, scholarships, class rankings—it always felt like we were racing toward the same finish line.
She walked toward us with two of her friends, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
At first, she just stared.
Then she burst out laughing.
“Wow,” she said loudly. “Did the nursing home lose a patient?”
