I felt like I owed her something I couldn't name.
The gymnasium was decorated with string lights and silver streamers. There were teenagers everywhere in their glittering dresses and crisp tuxedos. Parents lined the walls, taking pictures on their phones.
When I walked in, things got quiet in a spreading circle around me.
I felt like I owed her something I couldn't name.
A group of girls stared openly.
A boy leaned toward his friend and whispered, loud enough that I heard him even over the music: "Is that someone's grandma?"
I kept walking.
I held my head up.
"She deserves to be here," I whispered to myself. "This is for Gwen."
I was standing near the far wall, just watching the room fill up, when I first felt a prick against my left side.
I held my head up.
I shifted my weight. Still there.
I shifted again. Another prick, sharper this time.
"What on earth," I muttered.
I slipped out into the hallway and pressed my hand against the fabric near my ribs. There was something stiff underneath the lining. I could feel it through the material, a small, flat shape that shouldn't have been there.
I worked my fingers along the seam until I found a small opening and reached inside.
There was something stiff underneath the lining.
I pulled out a folded piece of paper.
I knew the handwriting immediately. I'd seen it on countless grocery lists and birthday cards over the years.
It was Gwen's handwriting.
I nearly dropped the letter when I read the first line.
Dear Grandma, if you're reading this, I'm already gone.
I pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no. What is this?"
I kept reading.
I know you're hurting. And I know you're probably blaming yourself. Please don't.
The tears came fast, and I didn't try to stop them.
Grandma, there's something I never told you.
I leaned back against the wall and covered my mouth with one hand as I read the rest of it.
Grandma, there's something I never told you.
I now understood exactly what had led up to Gwen's death.
For weeks, I'd been telling myself I failed her, that I'd missed the signs, that I should have asked better questions, paid closer attention, and seen what was right in front of me.
But Gwen had hidden it all from me on purpose.
She hid it because she loved me, and because she didn't want the last months we had together to be filled with fear.
And now I knew exactly what I had to do.
Gwen had hidden it all from me on purpose.
I walked back into the gym.
The principal was standing at the microphone, going on about proud traditions and bright futures. I walked straight down the center aisle, past staring teenagers and confused parents, right up to the stage.
"Excuse me."
He looked down at me, startled. "Ma'am, this isn't—"
I climbed the two steps to the stage and gently took the microphone from his hand.
I walked back into the gym.
He was too shocked to do anything, or maybe something in my face told him not to try.
"Before any of you try to stop me, I need to say something important about my granddaughter."
The room went absolutely silent. I looked out at the sea of faces.
"My granddaughter, Gwen, should be here tonight. She spent months dreaming about this prom. About this dress." I held up the letter. "And tonight I found something she left behind."
Whispers moved through the crowd.
"And tonight I found something she left behind."
"My granddaughter wrote this before she died. Gwen was proud of this school, and proud of her friends, so I think she'd want all of you to hear what she had to say."
I unfolded the paper slowly, though my hands were still shaking.
"A few weeks ago," I read, "I fainted at school, and the nurse sent me to a doctor. They told me there might be something wrong with my heart rhythm."
The whispers started again.
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