I used to hate my mom for being the school janitor. Kids taunted me mercilessly: “You’re a maid’s son!” Every time I saw her pushing that heavy cleaning cart down the hallway, a fresh wave of shame crashed over me. I avoided her, turned down other halls, pretended I didn’t see her—it was a constant, suffocating weight.
When I got into medical school, it felt like freedom. Finally, a life far from the embarrassment I associated with her. I threw myself into studying, chasing success, believing it represented everything she wasn’t. Becoming a licensed doctor was supposed to be my ultimate victory. At my small ceremony, I even told her, arrogantly, “I’m glad I didn’t grow up to be a failure like you.” She just smiled gently and said, “I’m proud of the man you’ve become, Julian.” I saw acceptance; I didn’t see love.
Two months after she passed, I found a box addressed to me. Inside were treasures wrapped in tissue: a first-grade drawing of a doctor, a worn velvet pouch with two hundred-dollar bills, and a silver locket. Beneath it all lay her diary, tied with twine, starting from the year I was born.
Reading her words shook me to my core. She had endured grueling double shifts, cleaning my school late into the night and working another high-paying job downtown—all to quietly fund my education and secure my future. Every sacrifice was carefully hidden so I would believe my success was my own. She watched me from afar, endured humiliation from other kids, and never complained. Every dollar, every lost hour of sleep, every ache in her back was for me.
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