She saved my life, and once, in a moment of pride and ignorance, I called her a nobody. Years of sacrifice disappeared behind that careless word. I believed I had escaped our broken childhood through my own determination. I thought the white coat and the title of “Doctor” marked the true beginning of my story.
But my story began long before that—on the day our mother died. She was nineteen, wearing a borrowed black dress, standing beside me as I tried to understand loss at twelve years old. In that moment, she chose responsibility over freedom. She became my guardian, my provider, my shield. She worked endless hours, set aside her own education, and quietly carried burdens I never fully saw.
When I walked into her nearly empty house years later and found her collapsed on the living room floor, the truth struck hard. My achievements had been built on her sacrifices. She had sold possessions, given up dreams, and endured exhaustion so I could succeed.
I once dismissed her strength because it was quiet. Now I understand that every life I help heal carries her unseen imprint. My success stands on her love, her resilience, and the countless choices she made without expecting recognition.