The underground passage echoed with the shuffle of hurried footsteps. Among the crowd, 14-year-old Martin sat quietly against the cold concrete wall, his worn shoe-shining kit spread out in front of him. His eyes darted from one pair of shoes to the next, hoping—just hoping—that someone would stop.
“Just a handful… just a handful today, please,” he whispered to himself.
Hours passed slowly, and Martin’s stomach growled angrily. The two slices of bread he had eaten for breakfast seemed like a distant memory. He took a small sip from his water bottle, trying to quiet the pangs of hunger.
“You can do this, Martin,” he muttered. “For Mom and Josephine.”
The thought of his paralyzed mother and little sister waiting at home strengthened his resolve. He plastered on a brave smile and tried to look confident, even though his hands shook with fatigue.
“Shoe shine, sir? Ma’am?” he called, his voice almost lost among the echoing footsteps and distant chatter.
Time crept by, and customers passed without stopping. Martin’s hope wavered, but he refused to give up. Finally, in the late afternoon, he gave himself a short break. Reaching into his worn leather bag, he pulled out a small orange—today’s lunch.
Just as he began peeling it, a pair of scuffed brown leather shoes landed with a thud in front of him.
“Hurry up, kid. Clean it. I’m in a rush,” barked a gruff voice.
Martin looked up and froze. A tall, sharply dressed man glared down at him. Everything about him screamed wealth. This could be the customer he’d been waiting for.
“Right away, sir!” Martin said, setting aside his orange and picking up his brushes and polish.
But the man’s impatience grew. “What’s taking so long? I don’t have all day!”
Martin’s hands trembled, but he forced himself to focus. “Almost done, sir. I promise it’ll look great.”
The man sneered. “At your age, I was already making more than my father. I wasn’t shining shoes like some beggar.”
The words cut deep. Martin’s father had died three years ago in a car accident caused by a drunk driver, leaving their family shattered. His mother had suffered a stroke soon after, leaving her paralyzed. At eleven, Martin had taken on the role of provider, sacrificing his childhood to care for his mother and little sister while shining shoes on the streets.
He forced the painful memories aside. There was work to do, and family to care for.
“You call this shining?” the man scoffed, inspecting his shoes. “My dog could do a better job with his tongue!”
Martin’s cheeks burned with shame. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I can try again—”
“Forget it,” the man interrupted, pulling out his phone. “Yeah, Sylvester here. Reschedule the meeting to four. I’ll be late thanks to this incompetent brat.”
Sylvester ranted into his phone as Martin’s mind drifted to his father. It’s not just about the shine, son, he remembered his father saying. It’s about dignity. Treat every shoe like it’s the most important one you’ll ever touch.
“Hey! Are you even listening?” Sylvester barked. “What’s your father doing, sending you out here like this? Too lazy to work himself, huh?”
Martin’s throat tightened. “My father… he passed away, sir.”
Sylvester’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. So your mother’s probably moved on with someone else, popping out more kids to send begging, right? Don’t you people have anything better to do?”
Martin clenched his fists but forced a polite smile. “That’s seven dollars, sir.”
“SEVEN DOLLARS?” Sylvester exploded. “For this pathetic excuse of a shine? I don’t think so, kid.”
Before Martin could react, Sylvester snatched his shoes and stormed off, leaving him empty-handed.
“Wait!” Martin called after him, desperation in his voice. “Please, sir! I need that money. Please!”
But Sylvester was already driving away, leaving Martin slumped against the wall, tears streaming down his face. He looked up at the gray sky, imagining his father’s face.
“I’m trying, Dad,” he whispered. “I’m really trying.”
His father’s last words echoed in his mind: Never give up, son. Each bump is a step closer to your dreams. Remember.
Wiping his tears, Martin returned to his spot. No time for self-pity, no time for tears. There was work to do.
The next morning, Martin set up his kit with renewed determination. Suddenly, a commotion caught his attention.
“Help! Someone help!” a frantic woman’s voice cried.
Martin’s heart raced. He ran toward the sound, pushing through the crowd. A fancy car had stopped in the middle of the street, and inside was none other than Sylvester, the man from yesterday.
“He’s choking on an apple!” someone shouted. “The car doors are locked!”
Without hesitation, Martin grabbed a rock from the roadside and smashed the car window. Glass shattered everywhere. He reached in, unlocking the doors.
“Stand back!” he shouted as he pulled Sylvester onto the pavement.
With all his strength, Martin gave sharp blows to Sylvester’s back. Suddenly, a chunk of apple flew out of his mouth, and he gasped for air.
“You… you saved me,” Sylvester wheezed, looking up at Martin with wide eyes.
Martin’s hands were shaking. “Are you okay, sir?”
Sylvester nodded, still catching his breath. “I can’t believe it… after how I treated you yesterday… Why did you help me?”
Martin shrugged. “It was the right thing to do.”
Tears filled Sylvester’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, kid. I was horrible to you. Please, let me make it up to you. Name your price. Anything!”
Martin thought a moment, then said quietly, “Just the seven dollars from yesterday. That’s all I want.”
Sylvester stared, stunned. “But… I could give you so much more. A new start, maybe?”
“I don’t need a new start, sir. I just need to take care of my family,” Martin said.
Reluctantly, Sylvester handed over the money. As the crowd dispersed, he lingered. “You’re quite something, kid. What’s your name?”
“Martin, sir.”
“Martin. I won’t forget this… or you,” Sylvester said, and finally walked to his car.
Martin clutched the hard-earned money, looking up at the sky. “I remember, Dad,” he whispered. “I always do.”
The next morning, Martin was jolted awake by Josephine’s excited screams.
“Marty! Marty! Come quick!”
He rushed outside to find a white bag on their doorstep, bulging with cash, and a note tucked on top. With trembling hands, Martin read aloud:
“Thanks is a small word for what you did. I know you’d refuse this. But you deserve a happy childhood. Took me just an hour to find your address. The world’s a small place, isn’t it?! Hope we meet again someday, and I hope you’re just the pure heart of gold you are!”
— Sylvester
Tears of joy filled Martin’s eyes. Josephine jumped up and down, and their mother wheeled closer, eyes wide with shock.
“Martin? What’s going on?” she asked.
Martin’s mind raced. This money could change everything: his mother’s treatment, Josephine’s education, and their entire future. But he hesitated. Was it right to accept it?
He walked to their small altar, lighting a candle. Grabbing two folded pieces of paper, he wrote “REMEMBER” on one and “FORGET” on the other. Shuffling them in his hands, he closed his eyes.
“Dad,” he whispered. “Help me make the right choice.”
He picked a paper, opened it, and smiled. The word read: REMEMBER.
In that moment, Martin knew he would accept the money—not for himself, but for his family. He would remember his father’s lessons, his own struggles, and the kindness that exists even in the hardest hearts.
“Josephine!” he called, voice trembling with emotion. “Go tell Mom we’re going to the doctor today. And then… maybe we’ll stop for ice cream on the way home. Get Mom a new comfy mattress. And lots of groceries for the entire week!”
Josephine’s squeals of joy filled the air. Martin clutched Sylvester’s note to his chest, feeling the warmth of hope and courage bloom inside him. He had remembered, and in doing so, he had found a way forward.