After our mother died, my sister was only 19. I was 12.
While she worked endless hours to keep us afloat, I focused on school, went to college, and eventually became a doctor.
At my graduation, filled with pride — and arrogance — I told her,
“See? I climbed the ladder. You took the easy road and became a nobody.”
She didn’t argue. She just smiled softly and walked away.
Three months passed without a call. Assuming she was still hurt, I finally went home. When I stepped into her small apartment, my heart dropped. The place was worn. Bills were piled on the table. And everywhere I looked, there were photos of me — school portraits, certificates, my graduation announcement framed with care.
A neighbor quietly told me the truth: she had worked two jobs for years so I could study without worry. She had given up her own dreams so I could chase mine.
When she saw me standing there, she simply said,
“I’m proud of you.”
In that moment, I realized something painful and humbling — I may have earned the title of doctor, but she was the one who made it possible.
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