I brought my cap and gown straight to Grandma’s garden, just like I said I would. She never cared much about ceremonies, but she deeply cared about her soil, her chickens, and people keeping their promises.
She was already waiting with a bouquet of roses when I arrived. “I knew you’d come,” she said. “Even though it’s not over yet.”
That threw me. “I walked today,” I said, holding up the diploma case. “I passed everything.”
She gave me a soft, slanted smile. “Mm-hmm. All but the one from yesterday. They haven’t told you yet.”
My stomach did a slow roll. I hadn’t even seen my final grade for Advanced Stats yet. I told her that.
She didn’t blink. “Your professor’s name is Silvano, right?”
She’d never seen my class schedule. Doesn’t own a phone. Writes letters with a fountain pen older than me. The only Silvano she’s ever mentioned was her brother’s goat.
I laughed nervously. “How could you possibly know that?”
She just shrugged, reached down, and pulled a weed from beside her tomatoes. “I just know, baby. Feel it in my bones.”
I stood there in silence, suddenly aware of how empty the diploma case felt. For a second, it all seemed unreal—like I’d wandered into one of her stories from my childhood, the ones with prophetic chickens and dreams that told the truth.
“You think I failed Stats?” I asked, trying to sound casual, like I wasn’t already panicking inside.
She finally looked up at me. “I think the boy who sat near the window copied your answers. And you didn’t notice.”
I blinked. “Wait—what?”
She stood slowly, brushing dirt from her knees. “Silvano saw the same mistakes. Figured you copied him.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, louder than I meant to.
She didn’t answer. Just walked over and handed me the roses. “When you love someone enough,” she said, “sometimes the wind whispers things.”
I almost rolled my eyes—almost. But this was Grandma. She didn’t lie. She just… knew things.
That evening, the email came. My professor flagged my exam for academic dishonesty. Identical answers. Same order. Same wrong graph. Same kid I’d let borrow a pencil and use my calculator. I’d trusted him—like a fool.
I stared at the screen, breath caught in my chest. Not only had I failed, but now my degree was being “withheld pending investigation.”
I didn’t even know how I’d explain this to Grandma.
But that night, her landline rang.
“Come by tomorrow,” she said. “Bring lemon pie.”
So I did. Along with a thousand questions. But mostly, I just sat across from her on…