And when I announced the scholarship, the room erupted—but nothing was louder than her pride.
That night, at our tiny table with the diploma between us, I understood something holy: being “trash lady’s kid” had never been an insult. It was an inheritance—of endurance, of humility, of a love that refused to break. The world had called her job dirty, but through her, I learned what real cleanliness was: the kind that begins in the heart and shines through the work of honest hands.
