“Don’t be gone too long,” he said gently. “I’ll miss you.”
My hands trembled as I drove to the address written on the note. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, torn between ripping the paper into pieces and facing whatever truth might be waiting for me.
When I arrived, I realized I recognized the building.
It was our old school.
But now it had been transformed into a restaurant, its large windows glowing warmly, with string lights hanging outside.
Confused and nervous, I stepped inside.
Suddenly, confetti burst into the air.
Streamers popped.
Balloons floated overhead.
Jazz music filled the room.
I looked around in complete shock.
My daughter was there. My son was there. Friends I hadn’t seen in years were standing around smiling.
And then Walter appeared.
He stood in front of me with his arms open and tears in his eyes.
“Do you remember the night I had to leave town?” he asked. “The night my father got transferred?”
I nodded slowly.
“You were supposed to take me to prom.”
He smiled sadly.
“But I never got the chance. And I’ve regretted that for 54 years. When you told me last year that you’d never gone to prom, I knew exactly what I had to do.”
At that moment, the young woman from the reception stepped forward.
