I took a lonely 78-year-old Vietnam veteran to my senior prom because he’d never attended his own — when grandma saw my date, she went pale.
He rubbed his thumb along the handle of his cane.
“You invited me.”
“I spent most of my life believing she chose silence. I’m not letting that belief take tonight too.”
That settled it.
We went.
***
People noticed Walter the second we walked in.
A girl from my calculus class approached us near the entrance.
“Wait. That’s your date, Nikki?”
“I spent most of my life believing she chose silence.”
“Yes.”
“Actually?”
Walter raised an eyebrow.
“Do I need identification?”
She flushed and moved away.
I looked at him.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve survived worse than teenagers.”
“Are you okay?”
***
We took pictures, talked, and watched people dance. Walter even sent Mom a photo without closing the app.
“Look at that,” I said. “Progress.”
“Don’t get carried away.”
Then a slow song started.
Walter’s smile disappeared.
His eyes moved toward the doors.
“Don’t get carried away.”
“You’re thinking about Rose.”
He didn’t deny it.
“Was she a good dancer?”
“The best.”
“Did you ever dance with her?”
Walter looked down.
“Was she a good dancer?”
“No. Prom was supposed to be our first real dance.”
I held out my hand.
“Then don’t let that night take this one.”
Walter stared at my hand.
“Nikki, my knees are older than your parents.”
“We’ll go slow.”
“Prom was supposed to be our first real dance.”
He laughed, but his eyes were still wet.
Then he took my hand.
We moved onto the floor carefully.
At first, he counted every step under his breath.
“You’re thinking too hard.”
“I’m trying not to flatten your shoes.”
Then he took my hand.
“You won’t.”
A few steps later, his shoulders finally relaxed.
When the song ended, Walter didn’t look toward the exit.
***
Later, he stared at our prom photo on my phone.
“You want me to send it to you?”
“Yes.”
I enlarged it first.
“You won’t.”
Walter smiled.
“Keep that one.”
I did.
***
Three days after prom, I found the wicker basket untouched on the table in Walter’s room.
“You haven’t opened one.”
Walter sat by the window.
“Keep that one.”
“For 60 years, I knew what happened.”
“You thought you knew.”
“Exactly.”
I sat across from him.
He looked at the basket.
“What if she was scared, Nikki? What if she needed me and thought I didn’t care?”
“You thought you knew.”
“Then you’ll finally know what she wanted you to know.”
Walter shook his head.
“You’re 18. You think answers fix everything.”
“No, I don’t. I just think that knowing the answers will help you decide what to do next.”
He looked at me.
“I think Rose wrote those letters because she wanted you to read them someday.”
Walter shook his head.
His eyes dropped again.
“I don’t know if I can do that alone.”
“You don’t have to.”
***
That afternoon, I called Gran.
