My father walked out the day I was born—no note, no explanation, just silence. My mother was left to raise me alone, working long, exhausting shifts as a diner waitress. I watched her struggle every day, counting pennies, shoulders heavy with fatigue, yet never complaining.
I dreamed of college, of escaping our hard life, but when I shared my plans, she simply said, “You should start working at the diner.” Furious, I blamed her for our poverty. She didn’t argue—she just smiled and said quietly, “We’ll figure it out.”
So I worked alongside her, aching and tired, but I studied whenever I could. The years passed in a mix of resentment and determination.
Then, on my birthday, she handed me an envelope—money she’d saved, every extra shift, every holiday, for my college tuition. I asked why she had made me work. She said it was so I’d understand the value of hard work and recognize my own strength.
That day, my anger melted. I realized that what I once saw as limitations were lessons in resilience, and what I had blamed her for was actually the foundation of everything she had given me. Now, as I chase my dream of becoming a doctor, I carry her sacrifice—and her love—every step of the way.