I’m sixteen, and I’ve learned that money can buy attention—but not dignity. Mom works at the city library, shelving books she’s too tired to read. Dad’s been gone since I was eight. It’s just me, Mom, and Grandma Martha—who cleans my high school. She knows every creaky tile and still wakes early on Saturdays to make me pancakes with extra chocolate chips. Kids whispered when they found out. “Your grandma’s the janitor?” they’d say, pretending it wasn’t cruel.
But Grandma always told me, “People who mock honest work are just showing their own emptiness.” Last week was the Scottsville Talent Show—sequins, diamonds, and too much perfume. That night, Grandma was mopping when a woman in fur and designer boots stopped and said loudly, “Be careful—these cost more than you make in a year.” Laughter followed. Grandma just kept mopping.
Then a boy, maybe eleven, stepped forward clutching a trophy. “Mom,” he said, “you always tell me to respect people who work hard. She’s cleaning. She’s not hurting anyone.” Silence fell. The woman flushed, dragged him away, and someone began to clap—slowly, then steadily. Grandma didn’t need to speak; the boy had already done it for her.
Later, over tea, she smiled. “She tried to humiliate me and failed,” she said. “And her son—she raised him. Somehow, he learned better. That gives me hope.” Fur fades. Perfume evaporates. But kindness—the kind that stands up in a hallway—echoes long after the floors are clean.