Until Ethan held that exact flower in front of me on graduation day.
My hands trembled.
“Where did you get this?”
Ethan looked down.
“Mary gave it to me.”
I stared.
“What?”
By then—
the laughter around us had started dying.
ETHAN OPENED ANOTHER FOLD OF THE TISSUE
A note.
Small.
Folded.
Mary’s handwriting covered one side.
I recognized it instantly.
Ethan’s voice shook.
“She gave me this three days before she died.”
I looked at him.
“You never told me.”
“She made me promise.”
Phones remained raised.
But nobody was laughing anymore.
Even the principal was watching.
Ethan handed me the note.
My fingers could barely open it.
At the top—
Mary had written:
Mom.
My vision blurred immediately.
“Read it.”
“I can’t.”
“Mom.”
“I can’t see.”
Ethan crouched beside my seat.
Put one hand over mine.
And together—
we read Mary’s last request.
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