My Classmates Spent Years Laughing at
Life on Pause
At eighteen, graduation feels unreal.
My grandmother raised me after my parents died,
and when she passed just before graduation, everything stopped.
Lorraine wasn’t just my guardian—she was my home.
Who She Was
She worked as a school cafeteria cook, up before dawn,
wearing aprons with sunflowers and strawberries.
She packed my lunches with notes like
“Eat the fruit or I’ll haunt you” and once told me,
“I don’t need to be rich. I just want you to be okay.”
What We Endured
Kids mocked her and called me “Lunch Girl.”
Teachers heard and said nothing.
She knew—but stayed kind anyway,
feeding everyone, even those who laughed.
What She Left Behind
At graduation, I told the truth:
“She served you thousands of lunches.”
Students apologized and built Lorraine’s Way.
She taught me love without conditions—and how to endure.
