I took my grandfather in his wheelchair to prom after he raised me alone. When a classmate made fun of him, what he said into the microphone silenced the entire gymnasium.

We weren’t perfect. Of course not!

Grandfather burned dinner. I forgot my chores. We argued about the curfew.

But we were perfect for each other.

Whenever I worried about school dances, my grandfather would push back the kitchen chairs and say, “Come on, my dear. A lady should always know how to dance.”

He was my father, my mother, and everything that family could mean to me.

We were spinning around on the linoleum until I laughed too loudly to be nervous.

He always ended the same way: “When your prom comes around, I’ll be the most handsome date.”

I believed Grandpa every time.

Three years ago, when I came home from school, I found it on the kitchen floor.

His right side was no longer responding. His speech had become strange, with poorly pronounced words.

I came home from school and found it on the kitchen floor.

The ambulance arrived. The hospital used words like “massive” and “bilateral.” The doctor in the hallway explained that it was unlikely my grandfather would walk again.

The man who had carried me out of a burning building could no longer stand.

I sat in the waiting room for six hours and didn’t break down, because my grandfather needed me to stay strong for once.