Kevin stood and held out his hand. He led me from Row Z to the front row, where a card read “RESERVED — GRANDMA.” Draped over the chair was my mother’s green afghan, the one I had wrapped around him when he was little. He placed it around the seat and smiled through his tears. “I saved you the warm spot, Grandma.” I sat down beneath it, with Mrs. Ortiz beside me and my little bouquet in my lap. The auditorium was crying. Kevin asked the dean whether I could walk across the stage with him when his name was called. The dean looked at the crowd and agreed. An hour later, I held my grandson’s diploma as three thousand people rose in a standing ovation.

Kevin had his hip surgery on June ninth, and he stayed with me afterward, cooking, driving me to appointments, and helping me walk. I no longer clean offices. My house is paid off, and my hip is better than it has been in years. Kevin works as a mechanical engineer and still calls every evening at seven-thirty. He and Priya are getting married, and they have asked me to move into their home in Marysville. When I asked whether I could bring the afghan, Kevin laughed and said that was the whole point. At their wedding, my seat will be in the front row, with the green blanket draped over it. I spent eighteen years saving him a warm spot. Now he saves one for me.