I still remember how the mud clung to my pants that morning—thick, sticky, and impossible to hide.
Before school, I worked at a neighbor's field. Odd jobs—feeding goats, lifting sacks of fertilizer—anything that could earn me a few coins. I was just a kid, but I already understood the weight of adult labor.
I didn't have time to change clothes. Didn't have time to clean my shoes.So I showed up at school reeking of sweat and soil.
And they saw it.
They laughed.They pointed.They whispered.
"Look at him.""Did he sleep in a pigsty?""Trying to act like he belongs here…"
But the worst part wasn't the dirt.
It was when someone said loud enough for everyone to hear:"Isn't he the kid whose dad ran off with another woman?"
My chest tightened instantly. The classroom shrank. I wanted to disappear, to run and never look back.
I didn't say anything. I never did.
Because what could I say?That it was true?That my family was broken?That every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was my mother's back as she slowly turned away from me?
I hated that school. Not because of the lessons or the teachers,but because of the feeling they planted—that no matter how hard I tried, I'd always be the boy with dirty shoes and a shattered home.
But I still showed up.
Because I had no choice.Because running away wouldn't fix anything.Because deep down, I still hoped—naively—that someday, everything would be okay.
"They mocked the mud on my clothes, never knowing the weight of the soil I carried just to survive."