My Classmates Spent Years Laughing at My ‘Lunch Lady’ Grandma – Until My Graduation Speech Made Them Fall Silent

And she made it work.

Her name was Lorraine, and people at school called her Miss Lorraine, or just “Lunch Lady,” as if it were some anonymous job title instead of the woman who practically raised half the kids in town.

She was 70 and still came to work before dawn, her thin gray hair tied with a scrunchie she made herself.

Every apron she wore had a different fabric — sometimes sunflowers, sometimes little strawberries. She said they made the kids smile.

Every morning, even though she’d spend her whole day making meals for other people’s children, she’d still pack my lunch and leave a sticky note in it. It was always something sweet or ridiculous, like, “Eat the fruit or I’ll haunt you,” or “You’re my favorite miracle.”

We were poor, but she never acted like we were missing out.

When the heater stopped working one winter, she filled the living room with candles and blankets and called it a spa night.

My prom dress was $18 from the thrift store, and she stitched rhinestones onto the straps while humming along to Billie Holiday.

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