Growing up meant inheriting the nickname “trash lady’s kid.” In elementary school the taunts were loud; by middle school they grew quieter, sharper. Chairs eased away from me. Snickers trailed behind. I ate lunch behind the vending machines—my unofficial sanctuary. At home, I never said a word. My mother’s tired smile was too precious to burden with my shame.
So I made a promise in silence: if she was breaking her back for me, I would make her pain worth something. Every page turned, every equation solved, every late-night light burning became part of our rhythm—her collecting cans, me collecting dreams. Continue reading…
