Chapter 8: The Name That Carried Her

Jasmine was at her home in the living room, and she was curled up on her couch, with a cup of chamomile tea warming in her hands, and a throw blanket across her lap, embracing her in a warm hug, when suddenly her phone buzzed with a message from my mom.

Jasmine blinked, heart skipping. She opened her text message and saw that her mom had sent a screenshot of the university newsletter thread that was sent to the entire student body. Beth also sent her a link to the scholarship.

“Whitmore Foundation Announces Evelyn Rose Scholarship for Women in Literature”

Her voice caught in her throat.

She clicked the image. The press release was standard, but the words hit like a wave.

Jasmine stared at the screen, her throat tightening. Evelyn Rose. Her grandmother. The woman who taught her to write poems on napkins and believe in the power of her own voice. The woman who had passed away two years ago, her legacy tucked into every stanza Jasmine ever wrote.

Her mother called. Jasmine answered, barely able to speak.

“Did you know he was doing this?” my mother asked.

“No,” Jasmine whispered. “I had no idea at all.”

My mom was quiet for a beat. “He didn’t just say sorry. He made space for you. For her. For every woman like you.”

Jasmine nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “It’s more than I expected. More than I thought he understood, and he truly understood and has shown me that he does truly care for me, regardless of status.”

“He truly cares for you, Jasmine. Dean has really shown that he isn’t willing to lose you or this relationship that both of you have built together,” she told me

Jasmine looks back at the screen, rereading the name. Evelyn Rose. It wasn’t just a scholarship—it was a restoration. A recognition. A bridge between dream and achievement.

And for the first time since the betrayal of Dean’s Mother, Jasmine felt something shift inside her—not forgiveness, not yet. But the beginning process of healing.

She goes upstairs to her room and opens up her desk drawer, pulls out her journal, and writes a poem in honor of this moment and her grandmother.

“Evelyn’s Name" They carved her name in bold letters, on pages meant for spoken words— But I remember her in softer ways, in whispered lines and tea-stained days. She taught me to hold a pen as if it were armor, as if it were kin. “Write what they won’t say,” she said with grace, “and leave your truth in every space.” Now strangers speak her name aloud, in rooms she never walked, yet vowed to fill with stories, fierce and kind — a legacy she left behind.

Her grandmother's memory comes to mind as Jasmine writes this poem. Jasmine was around twelve years old, sitting on her grandmother's porch swing with her hair gently stroked by her grandmother. Evelyn was sitting on her lap, holding a worn notebook, the summer air thick with honeysuckle.

"Tell me what today's sky feels like," Evelyn said, giving Jasmine a pen.

She fixed her eyes on the sky, "It feels like it's waiting for something."

A smile spread across Evelyn's face. “If that's the case, then write it down.”

They wrote for hours together, Evelyn's hand steady, Jasmine's messy and eager. When Jasmine hesitated, Evelyn would whisper, “Your voice is enough. Even when it trembles.”

That was the day Jasmine stopped writing for approval—and started writing for truth.