From the earliest days of my childhood, my name never seemed to belong to me. Long before anyone bothered to ask who I was, a different identity had been pinned to me like a faded badge: the garbage collector’s son. It clung to me the way diesel fumes cling to the morning air, drifting into every classroom, every whispered joke, every sideways glance meant to remind me of where they believed I belonged. My mother had never imagined this fate; she once studied to be a nurse, dreaming of clean hallways and steady futures. But grief arrived violently the day my father fell from scaffolding, and in a single morning,…CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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