The underground passage echoed with the shuffle of hurried footsteps. 14-year-old Martin sat quietly by the wall, his small shoe-shining kit spread out in front of him. Every now and then, his eyes flicked up at the endless parade of shoes passing by, silently praying for a customer.
“Just a handful,” he whispered to himself, “just a handful today, please.”
But as the hours passed, his stomach grumbled angrily. That tiny breakfast of two bread slices felt like a distant memory. Martin reached for his water bottle, sipping carefully to quiet the hunger pangs gnawing at him.
“You can do this, Martin,” he murmured under his breath. “For Mom and Josephine.”
The thought of his paralyzed mother and little sister waiting at home gave him strength. He forced a smile onto his tired face, determined to face whatever the day would throw at him.
“Shoe shine, sir? Ma’am?” His voice barely rose above the roar of the underpass.
Hours slipped by, but no one stopped. Martin’s hope began to fade, yet he refused to give up. Finally, as the afternoon sun streamed through the concrete cracks, he allowed himself a small moment of rest. Digging into his worn leather bag, he pulled out a small orange—his lunch for the day.
Just as he began peeling it, a pair of scuffed brown leather shoes landed heavily in front of him.
“Hurry up, kid. Clean it. I’m in a rush!” barked a deep, gruff voice.
Martin looked up. His heart thumped loudly in his chest. The man towering over him radiated wealth and arrogance. This could be his chance for a good tip.
“Right away, sir!” Martin said, setting aside the orange and reaching for his brushes and polish.
As he worked, the man’s impatience grew. “What’s taking so long? I don’t have all day!”
Martin’s hands shook slightly, but he concentrated on giving his best. “Almost done, sir. I promise it’ll look great.”
The man snorted. “At your age, I was already making more than my father. I wasn’t shining shoes like some beggar.”
The words stabbed deep. Three years earlier, a drunk driver had taken his father’s life, leaving their family shattered. The memory of that night—the screeching tires, the crunch of metal, the crushing news—was still fresh in Martin’s mind.
Then, just months after losing his father, his mother Mariam had suffered a stroke, leaving her paralyzed. At eleven years old, Martin had become the provider, taking on a burden far too heavy for a child. His childhood had been replaced with brushes, polish, and the endless hope that someone passing by might spare a coin.
Shaking off the painful memories, he focused on the shoes before him. His family depended on him.
“You call this shining?” the man sneered, examining the now-polished shoes. “My dog could do a better job with his tongue!”
Martin’s cheeks burned with shame. “I’m sorry, sir. I can try again—”
“Forget it,” the man snapped, pulling out his phone. “Yeah, Sylvester here. Reschedule the meeting to 4. I’ll be late, thanks to this incompetent brat.”
Sylvester’s voice crackled through the phone as Martin’s mind drifted. He remembered his father’s gentle hands guiding him, teaching him the art of shoe shining.
“It’s not just about the shine, son,” his father used to say. “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, yanking Martin back to reality. “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, forcing a polite smile. “That’s $7, sir.”
“SEVEN DOLLARS?” Sylvester exploded. “For this pathetic excuse of a shine? I don’t think so, kid.”
Before Martin could react, Sylvester grabbed his shoes and stormed off, leaving him empty-handed and heartbroken.
“Wait!” Martin called, chasing after him. “Please, sir! I need that money! Please!”
But Sylvester had already climbed into his car and sped away, leaving Martin slumped against the wall, tears streaming down his face.
Looking up at the sky, he whispered, “I’m trying, Dad. I’m really trying.”
His father’s 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.
The next morning, Martin set up his kit again, determination blazing in his chest. Suddenly, a commotion erupted nearby.
“Help! Someone help!” a frantic woman’s voice cried.
Martin’s heart leapt. He rushed toward the noise and was shocked to see a crowd around a fancy car. Inside, he recognized the man from yesterday—Sylvester.
“He’s choking on an apple!” someone shouted. “The doors are locked!”
Without hesitation, Martin grabbed a rock from the roadside and smashed the car window. Glass exploded everywhere as he reached in to unlock the door.
“Stand back!” he shouted, pulling Sylvester onto the pavement.
He delivered sharp blows to the man’s back with all his strength. Suddenly, a chunk of apple flew out of Sylvester’s mouth. He gasped, taking deep, shaky breaths.
“You… you saved me,” Sylvester wheezed, eyes wide with shock.
Martin helped him to his feet, hands trembling. “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 welled in 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 for a moment. “Just the $7 from yesterday. That’s all I want.”
Sylvester stared in disbelief. “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.”
Reluctantly, Sylvester handed over the money. As the crowd dispersed, he lingered, studying Martin. “You’re quite something, kid. What’s your name?”
“Martin, sir.”
“I won’t forget this… or you,” Sylvester said, walking away.
Martin clutched the hard-earned money. He looked up at the sky, whispering, “I remember, Dad. I always do.”
The next morning, Martin was jolted awake by his sister’s excited screams.
“Marty! Marty! Come quick!”
He ran outside to see a white bag bulging with cash sitting on their doorstep, along with a note. Trembling, he 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 and shock filled Martin’s eyes. His sister squealed with delight, and his mother wheeled herself to the doorway, astonished.
“Martin? What’s going on?” she asked.
Martin’s mind raced. This money could change everything: his mother’s treatment, Josephine’s education, their entire future. But was it right to accept it?
He walked to the small altar in their cottage, grabbing two pieces of paper. On one, he wrote “REMEMBER”, and on the other, “FORGET”. He folded them and shuffled them with his hands.
Lighting a candle before the crucifix, Martin closed his eyes. “Dad,” he whispered, “help me make the right choice.”
With a deep breath, he picked up a folded piece of paper. Slowly opening it, a small smile lit his face as he 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 struggles, and the kindness that can exist even in the hardest of 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!”
As Josephine’s delighted squeals filled the air, Martin clutched the note to his chest. He had remembered—and in doing so, he had found a way forward.