She got on her old bike and rode nearly three miles to help her mom sort recyclables behind a warehouse.
The smell was strong, the work was endless, and they often finished after dark.
Still, her mom would smile and say:
“Keep studying, honey. One day, you’ll build a life far from this.”
Emma would nod, swallowing the lump in her throat.
The Lonely Years
High school didn’t change much.
Emma studied hard, worked as a tutor, and helped her mom every night.
Her fingers were rough, her back ached, but her grades were flawless.
No one invited her to parties.
