Since I was a little boy, I knew what struggle looked like. While other children enjoyed new toys and fast food, I waited outside small food stalls, hoping the owners might share their leftovers. Sometimes they did. Sometimes they didn’t.
My mother, Rosa, woke up every morning before sunrise. At 3 a.m., she would leave our small shack by the river, wearing her worn-out gloves and a faded scarf. She pushed her wooden cart down muddy streets, collecting plastic bottles, cardboard, and anything else she could sell. By the time I left for school, she was already miles away—working hard to keep us alive.
We didn’t have much. I studied by candlelight, sitting on an old plastic crate while my mother counted coins on the floor. Yet, even in our toughest moments, she always smiled.
“Work hard, hijo,” she would say. “One day, you won’t have to touch garbage again.”
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