So I made one promise to myself: If she was going to break her body for me, I was going to make it worth it.
Education became my escape plan.
I'd camp in the library until closing.
We didn't have money for tutors, prep classes, or fancy programs.
What I had was a library card, a beat-up laptop Mom bought with recycled can money, and a lot of stubbornness.
I'd camp in the library until closing.
Algebra, physics, whatever I could find.
At night, Mom would dump bags of cans on the kitchen floor to sort.
I'd sit at the table doing homework while she worked on the ground.
"You're going to go further than me."
Every once in a while, she'd nod at my notebook.
"You understand all that?"
"Mostly," I'd say.
"You're going to go further than me."
High school started, and the jokes got quieter but sharper.
People didn't yell "trash boy" anymore.
Make fake gagging sounds under their breath.
They did stuff like:
Slide their chairs an inch away when I sat.
Make fake gagging sounds under their breath.
Send each other snaps of the garbage truck outside and laugh, glancing at me.
If there were group chats with pictures of my mom, I never saw them.
I could've told a counselor or a teacher.
That's when Mr. Anderson showed up in my life.
But then they'd call home.
And then Mom would know.
So I swallowed it and focused on grades.
