I am eighteen years old and my whole life is in a small apartment and in the arms of one person: my grandmother, Claire. My mother died giving birth to me. My father never existed in my history. Very early on, my grandmother decided that we would be enough for the two of us, that love didn’t have to be many to be immense.

A childhood built on the strength of arms and heart

When the other children talked about their parents, I talked about a grandmother who worked tirelessly. She came home late, smelling of lemon and soap, but always found the energy to read me a story. On Saturday mornings, she would make dinosaur-shaped pancakes, laugh when they failed, and teach me that perfection wasn’t the goal.

To support us, she accepted a job as a janitor… in my own high school. And that’s when the whispers started.

At first, it was discreet. Then the mockery gained confidence. Some laughed when they saw her push her cart, others made hurtful remarks without even whispering. I learned to smile and take it, as if it didn’t matter. I never told her anything: I refused to let her be ashamed of this work that had saved us.