Time passed, my mother kept working, and I kept studying, carrying books and a photo of her pushing her cart everywhere.
I woke at four am to help her before school and stayed up late memorizing lessons by candlelight, refusing to give up.
When I failed a math exam, she hugged me and said failing today didn’t mean failing myself tomorrow.
I carried that lesson with me always.
When I was accepted into public university, I nearly declined because we couldn’t afford the fees.
My mother sold her cart, her only source of income, just to pay for my entrance exam.
She told me it was time I stopped pushing garbage and started pushing myself toward a future.
On graduation day, four years later, I stood on stage in borrowed shoes and a gown that barely fit.
In the front row sat my mother, gloves clean for the first time, wearing a simple white dress with shining eyes.
When my name was called, the applause thundered, and some classmates who once mocked me even stood.
At the microphone, I abandoned my prepared speech and said that I was there because my mother taught me to turn garbage into gold.
I told her the diplomat belonged to her, and the room fell silent before erupting into heartfelt applause.
My mother lifted the diploma high, tears streaming, whispering that it was for every mother who never gave up.
Today, I am a teacher, standing before children who remind me of myself, telling them education is something no one can throw away.
I built a small learning center using recycled materials, with my mother still helping me collect what others discard.
On the wall hangs a sign reading, “From Trash Comes Truth,” reminding us all where hope can be found.
Each year, I visit the dump where my mother once worked, listening to the sounds that always meant survival and hope to me.
People ask what sentence made everyone cry that day, and I tell them it was simple and honest.
“You can laugh at what we do, but you will never understand what we survive.”
See more on the next page
Advertisement
