Hi, Im Luis Alberto, a 42-year-old civil engineer from Lima, Peru. I used to feel too embarrassed to share my life story because I grew up facing judgment and ridicule. But ignoring ignorant people became my shield, and seeing posts on this page inspired me to tell how one woman made my survival possible.
San Juan de Lurigancho is toughlocals understand. We lived in a tiny rented room, surviving on rice and eggs, with no extras. My father abandoned us when I was six, forcing me to help my mother early. She collected plastic bottles and cardboard, pushing an old tricycle at night to sift through trash since nobody recycled. Sometimes, we hauled so much weight Id strap bundles to my back. Mom gave me newspapers and bags to block the coldwe couldnt afford coats.
After school, Id finish homework and join her, scouring streets and markets for bottles. Crushing them underfoot to fit more, I burned with shame whenever classmates spotted and mocked me. Now, I realize their cruelty wasnt their fault but this countrys failure to teach respect.
Mom sensed my embarrassment. This is honest work, shed say. We harm no one, and it feeds us. Rosa María, from Huancayo, moved to Lima young for a better life but met a man who refused fatherhood. She never finished school yet schooled me in integrity. Without steady work, her struggles doubled, yet she taught me gratitudefor meals, shelter, a bed.
She knew precisely how many kilos of plastic paid for my notebooks or uniform. Some nights, I stayed home studying or guarding our room while she braved dangers, returning with cuts and exhaustion. Id soak her feet in saltwater, hiding that I skipped meals so shed eat.
Digging through trash, I salvaged prep academy books. Mom questioned my hoarding, but teachers said engineers earned well. I dreamed of lifting her from work, buying her clothes.
I barely secured a spot at the National Engineering University. My joy was shadowed by the grind aheadthrough every exam, Mom kept pedaling that tricycle, fueling my drive.
At my 2014 graduation, clutching my diploma, I spotted her crying in the crowd. That degree wasnt mineit was hers, paid for in bottles.
Now at a Lima construction firm, I earn enough to retire Mom, though she still strolls to chat with market vendors. I live with her still; no woman compares to her grit.
Every bottle I see isnt trashits hope. They built the bridge to who I am.
**Bonus**
Months ago, I spoke to students in San Juan de Lurigancho, recognizing my past in their hesitant eyes. I shared my storynot as an engineer, but as the boy crushing bottles for notebooks.
One boy asked, *So can I do it too?*
Smiling, I felt Moms hand on my shoulder from afar.
*Yes, mijo. Just promise never to shame honest work. Your dignity outshines gold.*
At home, I found her mending old sandals.
*Why not buy new ones?*
She chuckled. *These still walk, mijito. And they remind me how far weve come.*
Hugging her, I understoodevery step I take leans on her patched sandals, scarred hands, and iron will.
My proudest title? Not *Engineer*.
Forever: *Rosa Marías Son.*
Hi, I’m Luis Alberto, a 42-Year-Old Civil Engineer from Lima, Peru, and Initially, I Struggled to Share My Story Due to Prejudice in My Upbringing.
