Until now.
Aaron held that same flower in his palm.
My hands began to shake.
"Where did you get this?"
He looked down at it.
"Mary gave it to me."
I stared at him.
"What?"
The row of mothers beside me had stopped giggling.
So had the students standing nearby.
Aaron carefully lifted another fold of tissue paper.
There was a small note underneath.
My daughter's handwriting covered one side.
I knew it immediately.
Aaron's voice shook.
"She gave this to me three days before she died."
I looked at him.
"You never told me."
"She made me promise."
By now, people were turning in their seats.
Phones that had been pointed at Aaron for ridicule were still raised, but no one was laughing.
The principal remained near the stage.
She was watching us.
Aaron handed me the note.
I could barely unfold it.
At the top, Mary had written my name.
My vision blurred before I reached the next line.
Aaron crouched beside my chair.
"Read it."
I tried.
The words kept swimming.
Finally, Aaron put one hand over mine and read quietly with me.
Mary wrote that she knew she probably would not make it to graduation.
