I think about you every hour. I mean that. Every hour.
Your mom
That was all. No phone number. No explanation of the promise. Nora read it so many times in the following weeks that the fold went soft as cloth.
A promise. Until you were grown.
She turned eighteen on the ninth of April. On the tenth she wrote a second letter, two sentences long, and mailed it to the post office box in Warrenton.
I'm grown now. Graduation is June 13 at 2 p.m., and there's a seat with your name on it in the front row.
She'd gone to Ms. Ruiz's office the next day with the reserved seating form. She had sat with the pen over the fifth line for a long time. Then she'd written DANA KESSLER, and under RELATIONSHIP TO GRADUATE, in small, neat capitals, MOTHER.
There had been no reply.
* * *
Mr. Abernathy came through clapping his hands. "Five minutes, people. Honors students, you're processing in first, so please locate your sense of dignity and bring it with you."
Nora looked down at the papers in her hands. There were two speeches. She had not told Jess that. She had not told anyone.