A month before graduation, Kevin came home for spring break and asked for his birth certificate. I told him it was in a cedar box on the top shelf of my closet. He stayed in my bedroom longer than I expected. When he returned, his face had changed, but he said nothing. He left a day early the next morning, hugged me quickly, and drove back to Columbus. Then he stopped answering my calls. At first, I blamed finals and senior-year pressure. I called every evening, sent loving messages, and waited. After two weeks, he finally answered. His voice sounded cold. “Grandma, I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” he said. Then he asked me to leave him alone and hung up.

I could not understand what I had done. I replayed every conversation from his visit, searching for a mistake. I baked four dozen oatmeal raisin cookies, his favorite, and packed them in a shoebox with a note telling him I loved him. The package came back unopened, marked refused. I sat on the porch holding it and cried until Mrs. Ortiz came over. Still, I decided I would keep my promise and attend his graduation. On the morning of the ceremony, I put on the navy dress Kevin had once rated ten out of ten. Mrs. Ortiz drove me to Columbus. I bought a small bouquet of daisies and baby’s breath, then stood outside Mershon Auditorium, afraid to go in.