Denise kept recording, but her hand began to tremble, blurring the image on her expensive screen.

“That woman worked at a local bookstore, cleaned offices, and studied under a flickering lamp at night whenever she could keep her eyes open,” Simon continued, tears rising in his own eyes.

“She took me to the emergency room even when she didn’t have enough cash in her wallet for the bus ride, and she taught me to read long before I ever set foot in a classroom.”

Joanna could no longer hold back the flood of tears, and her friend Sarah reached over to squeeze her hand tightly.

Simon reached under his graduation gown and pulled out a scrap of worn yellow fabric that had clearly been washed a thousand times.

“This was my first blanket, and Joanna kept it all these years—along with my hospital bracelet, my childhood drawings, and even a scribbled note I wrote when I was six, where I accidentally called her Mom,” he said, holding it up for everyone to see.