Noah and I had been best friends since we were six.
We met in first grade because we both hated raisins.
Our teacher handed everyone little red boxes at snack time, and I was secretly hiding mine beneath a napkin when Noah leaned over.
“That’s smart.”
I looked beside me.
He was doing the same thing.
“You hate them too?”
“They’re old grapes,” he said seriously.
That was enough.
By lunchtime, we were inseparable.
Noah had Down syndrome, but at six years old, that mattered far less to me than the fact that he cheated at dinosaur trivia and laughed at my terrible drawings.
One afternoon, another boy in class told Noah that nobody would ever marry him.
I still remember Noah’s face falling.
“Somebody will love him,” I snapped.
The boy laughed.
“Then you marry him.”
