I’m 18, and my only family is my grandmother, Doris.
My mother died giving birth to me. I never knew my father. From the start, it was just the two of us. She worked as a janitor at my school to support us—never complaining, never missing a single school event, clapping louder than anyone else.
At school, kids mocked me for it.
“Future mop boy.”
“He smells like bleach.”
I pretended it didn’t hurt. I never told her. To me, she was a hero, and I refused to let anyone make her feel small.
When senior prom came, I didn’t invite a date. I invited my grandma.
She hesitated, worried she’d embarrass me. She wore her old floral dress, brushed her gray hair carefully, and smiled like it was a holiday. To me, she looked perfect.
When I asked her to dance, the laughter started—loud and cruel.
“He’s dancing with the janitor!”
I felt her shoulders slump. She whispered that she should go home.
Instead, I walked to the DJ booth and turned off the music.
“This woman,” I said into the microphone, “raised me alone. She worked nights cleaning your classrooms so I could stand here tonight. You laugh at her job—but she’s the strongest person I know.”
The room went silent. Then one person clapped. Then another. Soon, everyone was standing.
At graduation, they honored her publicly for decades of service. When I hugged her, she whispered, “This is because of who you chose to be.”
They called her “just a janitor.”
But to me, she was everything.
