“For twelve years, they called me the garbage collector’s daughter,” she began, her voice shaking.

“I don’t have a father. And my mother—that woman over there—raised me with hands that were used to touching dirt.”

No one spoke.

“When I was a child, I was ashamed of her. I was embarrassed to see her pick up bottles in front of the school.

But one day I understood: every bottle, every piece of plastic that Mom picked up, was what allowed me to go to class every day.”

She took a deep breath.

“Mom, forgive me for embarrassing you. Thank you for mending my life like you mended the holes in my uniform.