My name is Zia.

All my life, I’ve carried a question that never had an answer: Why did my parents leave me? I have never seen their faces. I don’t know the sound of their voices or what it feels like to be hugged by them. There are no photos, no letters, no stories—just silence. Growing up, I used to imagine they would come back one day. I would picture them walking through our small door, saying they were sorry. But as the years passed, I slowly stopped imagining. It hurt too much to hope.

The only real love I ever knew came from my grandparents.

We were very poor. Painfully poor. But with them, I never felt unwanted. My grandfather worked at construction sites. Every morning before the sun fully rose, he would wear his old boots and leave the house quietly so he wouldn’t wake me. He carried heavy sacks of cement, climbed unstable scaffolding, and worked under the burning heat just to earn enough for food and my school expenses. His hands were rough and cracked, always covered in gray dust. He came home exhausted every night, his body aching—but he still smiled at me. He always asked, “How was school?” like my answer was the most important thing in the world.

My grandmother sold banana cue sticks on the roadside. I can still remember the smell of caramelized sugar filling our tiny house early in the morning. She would carefully fry the bananas until they turned golden and glossy, then place them neatly on sticks to sell. She stood for hours under the sun, calling out to customers, hoping to earn enough to buy rice for dinner. Some days she came home with very little money. But she would still say, “It’s okay, apo. Tomorrow will be better.”

Our house was small and fragile. When it rained, water leaked through the roof. When strong winds came, the walls shook. But inside that house, I felt safe. I would sleep beside my grandparents when thunderstorms scared me. I would listen to my grandmother hum soft songs while my grandfather fixed broken chairs or patched the roof. We didn’t have much, but we had each other.

Even though we were poor, I felt loved.

School, however, was a different world.

My classmates noticed everything—my faded uniform, my old shoes, my simple food. They asked about my parents, and when I couldn’t answer, they filled the silence with cruel words.

“Maybe they didn’t want you.”
“Maybe you were a mistake.”
“That’s why you’re poor.”

I learned to lower my head and pretend I didn’t care. But at night, lying on my thin mattress, I would stare at the ceiling and silently cry. Sometimes I wondered if maybe they were right. Maybe I wasn’t worth staying for.
Still, I studied hard.
I wanted to give my grandparents a better life. I dreamed of finishing school, getting a stable job, and building them a stronger house—one that wouldn’t leak when it rained. I wanted my grandmother to stop standing under the sun selling banana cue. I wanted my grandfather to stop risking his life carrying cement and climbing dangerous structures.
But life didn’t give me that chance.
When I was twelve years old, everything fell apart.
One afternoon, while I was in class, I was called to the principal’s office. I still remember the heavy look on his face. There had been an accident at the construction site where my grandfather was working. The building they were constructing collapsed because of structural failure. Concrete and metal crashed down suddenly. Many workers were trapped.
My grandfather didn’t survive
I don’t even remember how I reacted. It felt like my body was there, but my soul had left. At his funeral, I kept thinking, He was just here yesterday. He kissed my forehead before going to work that morning. I didn’t know that would be the last time.

After he died, my grandmother tried to stay strong for me. She continued selling banana cue, even though her hands shook more and her cough became worse. She had been sick for a long time, but she hid it so I wouldn’t worry.
Without my grandfather, everything became harder. We couldn’t afford proper medicine. Grief slowly destroyed her health.
One day, she collapsed.
I stayed beside her hospital bed, holding her weak hand. I begged her not to leave me too. She looked at me with tired eyes and said softly, “Be brave. You are stronger than you think.”
A few days later, she was gone.
In less than a year, I lost the only two people who ever chose me.
Relatives came, but only to say sorry. None of them took me in. They said they had their own problems. I felt like a burden nobody wanted. Soon, unpaid bills wanted me out of our small wooden house.
At twelve years old, I became homeless.
I packed my clothes in a small bag and carried my grandmother’s scarf with me. I didn’t know where to go. The streets became my shelter. I slept outside closed stores, sometimes near a church, sometimes on cold sidewalks. I learned how to stay awake enough to feel safe. Hunger became normal. Fear became part of me.
But I refused to stop studying.
School was the only thing I had left.
Every morning, I washed in public restrooms before class. I made sure no one saw where I came from. But eventually, people found out.
“She’s homeless.”
“She probably smells.”
“Don’t sit near her.”
The bullying became worse. Some students pushed me. Some laughed about my grandparents’ jobs. They mocked the idea of a construction worker and a banana cue vendor raising someone who dreamed big.
Despite everything, I applied for a scholarship. It was my only hope. I studied under streetlights, ignoring my empty stomach. I reviewed lessons while sitting on sidewalks. I passed with high scores.
For the first time in a long time, I felt hope.
But even that was taken from me.
One of the board members asked to meet me privately to discuss scholarship matters. At first, he praised me. Then everything changed. He crossed boundaries no one should ever cross. I felt trapped, powerless, scared.
When I tried to speak, he threatened me. He said if I told anyone, I would lose my scholarship. I would be expelled. No one would believe a homeless girl over him.
So I stayed silent.
I carried that pain alone.
I continued going to school like nothing happened Until I Graduated G12 I avoided him. I swallowed my fear. Every day felt heavier. Every night, lying on cold concrete, I cried quietly so no one would hear me. And now I watched other students prepare for college while I tried to figure out where I would sleep at night.
I wanted to continue studying. I wanted to go to college. I wanted to fulfill the dreams I once had for my grandparents.
But dreams need support, and had none.
I couldn't afford college.
I couldn't even afford stability.
So I stopped.
That was one of the hardest moments of my life - not because I was lazy, not because I didn't care, but because I had no choice. I felt like the world kept closing doors in front of me no matter how hard I tried.
I missed my grandfather’s tired smile. I missed the smell of banana cue frying in sugar. I missed having a home. I missed feeling safe.
No one truly helped me.
Some people saw my situation but chose to ignore it. Others judged me as if my life was my fault. I felt invisible, like I was fighting a battle no one could see.
But I’m still here.
I endure hunger.
I endure humiliation.
I endure loneliness.
I endure fear.
I endure silence.
I didn’t become strong because I wanted to. I became strong because I had no choice. Every painful memory reminds me that I’ve survived things that could have destroyed me.
And until now, I am still fighting.
I am still battling life every single day just to survive. Some days I feel tired—so tired I want to give up. But I remember my grandparents. I remember their sacrifices. I remember their love.
The world broke my heart many times.
I lost my parents.
I lost my grandparents.
I lost my home.
I lost my childhood.
But I am still here.