Her shoes wore thin quickly because she walked everywhere.
But her heart had never lacked love.
It wasn’t loud love.
It wasn’t the kind that announced itself in grand gestures or expensive gifts.
Maria’s love lived in small rituals.
Opening classroom windows at dawn to let fresh air push out stale heat.
Staying after school to tutor children who struggled to read.
Keeping a tin can hidden inside her drawer where she saved coins—five pesos here, ten pesos there—so she could buy pencils for students whose parents couldn’t.
She noticed what others ignored.
The boy who always chose the back row because his shirt was faded and patched.
Continue on the next page:
