There were no backup plans. Just the two of us and a world that didn’t slow down to help.
And she made it work.
Her name was Lorraine, and people at school called her Miss Lorraine, or just “Lunch Lady,” as if it were some anonymous job title instead of the woman who practically raised half the kids in town.
She was 70 and still came to work before dawn, her thin gray hair tied with a scrunchie she made herself.
And she made it work.
Every apron she wore had a different fabric — sometimes sunflowers, sometimes little strawberries. She said they made the kids smile.
Every morning, even though she’d spend her whole day making meals for other people’s children, she’d still pack my lunch and leave a sticky note in it. It was always something sweet or ridiculous, like, “Eat the fruit or I’ll haunt you,” or “You’re my favorite miracle.”
We were poor, but she never acted like we were missing out.
“You’re my favorite miracle.”
When the heater stopped working one winter, she filled the living room with candles and blankets and called it a spa night. My prom dress was $18 from the thrift store, and she stitched rhinestones onto the straps while humming along to Billie Holiday.
“I don’t need to be rich,” she said once when I asked her if she ever regretted not going back to school. “I just want you to be okay.”
And I was. At least, until high school made it harder.
“I just want you to be okay.”
It started in freshman year, the way whispers do — low and mean.
People would pass me in the hall and mutter things like, “Better not talk back to her, her grandma might spit in your soup.” Some thought it was funny to call me “Lunch Girl” or “PB&J Princess.”
A few would go up to the counter and mock my grandma’s sweet Southern accent or imitate the way she always said “sugar” or “honey” to everyone.
It started in freshman year…
Some of them were kids I’d gone to elementary school with — kids who used to come over for popsicles and run around our backyard.
I remember one day when Brittany, who had once cried at my eighth birthday party because she didn’t win in musical chairs, asked in front of a group, “So, does your grandma still pack your panties with your lunch?”
Everyone laughed. I didn’t.
At school, kids treated her like a punchline — snickering at her apron, mimicking her sweet “How are you doing, honey?” and calling her the “stupid lunch lady.” Nothing loud enough to punish, but enough to sting.
Everyone laughed. I didn’t.
Even teachers heard it. But no one said anything.
Maybe they thought I’d toughen up, or it wasn’t that serious. But to me, every comment felt like it was chipping away at the one person who gave me a reason to get up in the morning.
I tried to shield her from it. She already had arthritis in her hands and often came home with her back aching. I didn’t want to weigh her down with teenage cruelty.
But she knew. And she… stayed kind anyway.
But she knew.
My grandma knew everyone’s name, slipped extra fruit to the hungry kids, asked about their games, and loved them like they were her own.
I buried myself in books, scholarships, and anything that would get me out of that school and into college.
I spent more nights at the library than I did at parties. I missed homecomings and game nights.
All I could see was the finish line, and all I could hear was her voice saying, “One day you’re gonna make something beautiful out of all this.”
In the spring of senior year, everything changed.
I missed homecomings…
It started as a tightness in her chest. At first, she brushed it off.
“Probably the chili,” she joked, patting her collarbone. “That jalapeño was mad at me.”
But it kept happening. She would wince while stirring a pot or press her palm to her ribs when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I begged her to go to the doctor. We didn’t have great insurance. Most times, it was urgent care and hope for the best. She kept saying, “Let’s get you across that stage first. That’s the priority.”
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