On prom night, Noah arrived carrying a corsage.
I was halfway down the stairs when I saw Mom open the front door.
Her expression changed the second she looked at him.
Noah stood there smiling in his navy suit, his ridiculous bow tie perfectly straight.
In one hand was the corsage.
“What kind of flower is that?” I asked.
“Rosemary,” Noah said proudly.
“Why rosemary?”
“The florist said it means remembering.”
He grinned.
“And I remember promises.”
Behind me, Mom made a strange sound.
When I turned around, her eyes were wet.
“Mom?”
“Come upstairs.”
“What? Noah’s waiting.”
“I know.”
Once we entered my bedroom, she closed the door.
Then locked it.
“You’re scaring me.”
“You can go with Noah,” she said. “But I need one promise first.”
I immediately became angry.
“If this has anything to do with Noah having Down syndrome—”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then what?”
Mom sat on my bed.
“Do you remember when your father left?”
I frowned.
“What does that have to do with tonight?”
“You were twelve.”
Then she said something that caught me completely off guard.
“You stopped eating lunch.”
My arms fell to my sides.
“How do you know?”
“Noah told me.”
I stared at her.
She explained that during the worst part of the divorce, Noah once found her crying alone in her car in the school parking lot.
She thought nobody had seen her.
But Noah had.
“He asked me if you were broken,” Mom whispered.
My throat tightened.
“Why?”
“Because you weren’t eating. You weren’t laughing much. He noticed you sitting alone.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him you weren’t broken.”
Mom squeezed my hand.
“Then Noah said something I’ve remembered for six years.”
“What?”
Tears slipped down her face.
“He said, ‘Good. Because I don’t know how to fix people. I only know how to stay.’”
I couldn’t speak.
Suddenly, all those quiet lunches came rushing back.
Noah sitting beside me.
No questions.
No pressure.
Just presence.
Then Mom revealed the secret she had carried for six years.
“I asked Noah to promise me he would look after you.”
I stared at her.
“You asked him that?”
“I was falling apart. Your father was gone. You barely spoke to me. Noah was the only person who could still make you smile.”
According to Mom, Noah hadn’t hesitated.
He had simply said:
“Okay.”
Then Mom looked ashamed.
“But after that, I started making a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“For years, whenever you defended Noah or changed your plans because someone excluded him, I worried you were giving up too much for him.”
I went silent.
“I kept thinking about what Noah might need from you,” she continued. “I never stopped to notice everything he gives you.”
And suddenly, I saw our entire friendship differently.
The ice cream after my driving test.
The dinosaur drawing.
The lunches after Dad left.
The porch after my first heartbreak.
Noah had never been a responsibility I carried.
We carried each other.
“So what’s your condition?” I asked.
Mom smiled through tears.
“Don’t go to prom because six-year-old Chrissy made a promise.”
She squeezed my hands.
“Go because eighteen-year-old Christina chooses him.”
I laughed softly.
“Mom, that’s already why I’m going.”
“I know that now.”
PART 3
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