A wealthy man sneered at a poor boy shining shoes in an underpass, refusing to pay him, saying, “My dog could do a better job with his tongue!” But the next day, fate would reunite them in a way neither expected.

In the shadowy underpass, 14-year-old Martin sat quietly, his shoe-shining kit laid out before him. He scanned the passing feet, hoping someone would stop.

“Just a few customers today,” he whispered. “Just enough.”

His stomach growled in protest. The two slices of bread he had for breakfast were long gone. He took a small sip of water to ease his hunger.

“You can do this, Martin. For Mom and Josephine,” he told himself, thinking of his paralyzed mother and little sister waiting at home. His small earnings were all they had to survive.

“Shoe shine, sir? Ma’am?” Martin called, his voice barely cutting through the noise of the underpass.

Hours passed without a single customer. His spirits were sinking, but he couldn’t give up. Just as he reached for the small orange he’d saved for lunch, a pair of scuffed brown leather shoes stopped in front of him.

“Hurry up, kid. I’m in a rush,” a gruff voice barked.

Martin’s heart raced. The man was sharply dressed, exuding wealth. This could be his chance to make some much-needed money.

“Yes, sir! Right away!” Martin set aside his orange and began his work.

But as Martin polished, the man grew impatient. “What’s taking so long? I don’t have all day!”

Martin’s hands shook, but he focused, determined to make the shoes shine perfectly. “Almost done, sir. It’ll look great, I promise.”

The man scoffed. “At your age, I was already making more than my father. I wasn’t out here shining shoes like some beggar.”

The words stung. Three years ago, Martin’s father had died in a car accident caused by a drunk driver, leaving his family in pieces. After that, his mother had a stroke, leaving her paralyzed. At eleven years old, Martin had taken over as the provider, becoming a shoe-shiner like his father had been.

But there was no time for sadness now. He needed to finish the job.

The man inspected his shoes and sneered. “This? My dog could do a better job with his tongue!”

Martin’s face flushed with shame. “I’m sorry, sir. Let me try again—”

“Forget it,” the man snapped, pulling out his phone. “Yeah, Sylvester here. I’ll be late to the meeting because of this useless kid.”

As Sylvester talked on the phone, Martin thought of his father’s lessons. “It’s not just about the shine, son. It’s about dignity. Treat every shoe like it’s the most important one you’ll ever shine.”

“Hey! Are you even listening?” Sylvester’s voice broke through Martin’s thoughts. “What, your father too lazy to work, sending you out here like this?”

Martin’s throat tightened. “My father passed away, sir.”

Sylvester narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I see. So your mom’s probably off with someone else, having more kids to send out begging, huh? You people always find a way to be useless.”

Martin clenched his fists but stayed calm. “That’ll be $7, sir.”

“Seven dollars? For this terrible shine? I don’t think so, kid.”

Before Martin could protest, Sylvester grabbed his shoes and stormed off without paying, leaving Martin crushed.

“Please! I need that money!” Martin called, but Sylvester drove away, leaving him in a cloud of dust and disappointment.

Martin slumped against the wall, tears welling in his eyes. Looking up at the sky, he whispered, “I’m trying, Dad. I really am.”

His father’s last words echoed in his mind: “Never give up, son. Every bump in the road gets you closer to your dreams.”

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