I became a widow at twenty-five. Back then, I still believed life followed plans, that love could build something stable, something lasting. My husband and I didn’t have much, but we had hope. Then one day, he died—an accident at a construction site. Carelessness, urgency, bad luck… it didn’t matter.
I remember wiping my hands on a towel before opening the door when they came to tell me. As if tragedy required composure.
What stayed with me wasn’t grief.
It was fear.
How was I going to feed my son?
No one came to rescue us. No miracle arrived. I had no degree, no profession—just a small stove, two hands, and a child looking at me like I had all the answers.
So I started selling food on a street corner.
At first, it humiliated me. But hunger teaches you quickly that pride doesn’t fill an empty stomach. I woke up before sunrise, cooked until my hands burned, sold until my voice went hoarse, then cleaned and did it all again the next day.
Little by little, it worked.