Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Is this… real?"
"It's real," I said.
"You're going to college," she said. "You're really going."
"I told him you would do this."
She hugged me so hard my spine popped.
"I told your father," she cried into my shoulder. "I told him you would do this."
We celebrated with a five-dollar cake and a plastic "CONGRATS" banner.
She kept saying, "My son is going to college on the East Coast," like a spell.
I decided I'd save the full reveal—the school's name, the scholarship, everything—for graduation.
Make it the moment she'd remember forever.
The air smelled like perfume and sweat and nerves.
Graduation day came.
The gym was packed.
Caps, gowns, screaming siblings, parents in their best clothes.
I spotted Mom all the way in the back bleachers, sitting as straight as she could, hair done, phone ready.
Closer to the stage, I saw Mr. Anderson leaning against the wall with the teachers.
My heart pounded harder with each row.
He gave me a small nod.
We sang the national anthem.
The boring speeches.
Names being called.
My heart pounded harder with each row.
Then: "Our valedictorian, Liam."
I already knew how I wanted to start.
The applause sounded… weird.
Half polite, half surprised.
I walked up to the mic.
I already knew how I wanted to start.
"My mom has been picking up your trash for years," I said, voice steady.
