“Abroad?” she asked softly. “That’s very far, my son.”
I nodded. “Yes, Ma. But it’s not forever. When I come back, you’ll never have to carry that sack again.”
She tried to laugh, brushing away her tears. “Don’t worry about me. Just remember who you are.”
“I will, Ma.”
Years passed.
Every email I sent her started the same way: Ma, I miss your cooking.
And every reply she sent began with: Son, I am so proud of you.
When I graduated abroad with honors again, I sent her a photo of me in my toga. She replied with just three words:
“I told you.”
The day I finally returned home, I didn’t tell her I was coming.
I went straight to the market where she worked. The smell of fish, vegetables, and rain filled the air. And there she was — older, smaller than I remembered, still sorting bottles and cans.
“Ma,” I said softly.
She turned, startled. Then her eyes widened. “Miguel?”
I dropped my bag and ran to her, hugging her tight.
She touched my face with rough hands. “Ay, look at you. You’ve grown.”
I laughed through my tears. “And you’re still the most beautiful woman in the world.”
She smiled, shaking her head. “You always say that.”
Then I reached into my bag and handed her a folded paper — an employment letter.
She frowned. “What’s this?”
“Ma,” I said, my voice trembling. “It’s from the university. They offered me a teaching position. We’ll move into a new house tomorrow. You don’t have to work here anymore.”
She covered her mouth, crying. “No more collecting garbage?”
“No more,” I whispered.
She hugged me again, tighter than ever. “Your father would be proud.”
That night, as we sat together outside our new home, I asked her something I’d always wanted to know.
“Ma, back then… when everyone called me names, when life was so hard — how did you keep going?”
She smiled faintly, looking up at the stars.
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