The silence in that gym was the loudest thing I have ever heard. I told them she was my “polar star,” the light I followed through every dark night. “She died last week,” I concluded, looking directly at those in the front row. “She didn’t get to see me in this gown, but she gave me everything that made this moment possible. She mattered. And if you take one thing from tonight, let it be this: when someone shows you kindness, don’t laugh. Because one day, you’ll realize it was the strongest thing you’ve ever known. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll wish you had said thank you.”
I stepped back to a stillness so profound it felt like a physical weight. Then, slowly, the applause began—not the raucous cheering of a pep rally, but a steady, somber clapping that sounded like a collective apology.
In the hallway afterward, I was approached by Brittany and the others. They were red-eyed and small, their confidence stripped away by the mirror I had held up to them. “We were so mean,” Brittany whispered. “We thought it was harmless. We’re so sorry.”
They told me they had already started a plan. They wanted to fund a tree-lined walkway leading to the cafeteria entrance—a peaceful place to sit, a place they wanted to name “Lorraine’s Way.” Something inside me, something that had been held tight for years, finally cracked open. These kids hadn’t just felt guilt; they had felt a need for change.
“She would have fed you anyway,” I told them.
That night, I went home to the empty house. I sat at the kitchen table where her empty coffee mug still sat. I looked at the empty apron hook on the wall and whispered to the silence, “They’re going to plant trees for you.” I like to think she heard me. She taught me how to endure, how to forgive, and how to love out loud. And maybe, if I try hard enough, I can become someone else’s polar star, too.
