My name is Marissa. I’m forty-nine years old, and last month I started working as a janitor at the same university where my son, Logan, is a sophomore.

I’ve been a single mother for most of his life. There were years when I worked two jobs. Some months, three. I cleaned offices at dawn, waited tables at night, and folded laundry after midnight just to make sure the lights stayed on and his tuition payments went through on time.

Every semester bill.
Every lab fee.
Every textbook that cost more than our grocery budget.

I carried it.

So when a full-time position opened up on campus—steady schedule, benefits, health insurance, and close enough that I wouldn’t burn gas driving across town—it felt like grace finally catching up to me.

I came home that evening almost excited.

“Guess what?” I told him. “I got the job at your school.”

He looked up from his phone. “Doing what?”

“Facilities. Janitorial staff.”

I waited for something—relief, maybe pride, maybe just a neutral nod.

Instead, his face changed.

“YOU got a job here? As a janitor? Mom… that’s embarrassing.”

I felt my smile falter.

“What if my friends see you?” he added, like that was the real tragedy.

I laughed softly, trying to soften the moment. “Well, if it bothers you that much, just pretend you don’t know me.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even hesitate.

He shook his head and walked out of the kitchen.

The next morning, I reported to work with a tightness in my chest I couldn’t quite name.

They assigned me to one of the main academic buildings—high ceilings, glass walls, constant foot traffic. Students streamed in and out between lectures, backpacks slung low, headphones on.

I kept my head down and did my job.

Mid-afternoon, I was wiping fingerprints from the glass doors near the entrance when I heard a burst of familiar laughter echo down the hall.

Logan.

I knew his footsteps before I saw him.

He rounded the corner with three of his friends. I braced myself to be invisible. Being ignored would’ve stung, but I was prepared for that.

What I wasn’t prepared for was this.

He looked straight at me. Our eyes met for half a second.

Then he turned to his friends and said loudly, “Ugh, the cleaning crew always leaves streaks on the glass. Don’t touch anything, guys. You never know what they drag in.”

He said it while looking directly at me.

Like I wasn’t his mother.

Like I was something he needed to distance himself from.

His friends laughed. One of them made a face and muttered something about “gross.”

My hands trembled so badly I nearly dropped the cloth.

I kept wiping the same patch of glass over and over because if I stopped—even for a second—I knew I would fall apart.

I felt smaller than I had in years.

That night, I waited until we were both home and the silence had settled.

“Why would you talk about me like that?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t look up from his laptop.

“I told you not to work here,” he said. “You didn’t listen. Don’t make this my fault.”

I stared at him.

“No apology?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“You’re the one who chose to put yourself in that position.”

That was it.

No guilt.
No reflection.
Just dismissal.

I went to my room and sat on the edge of my bed for a long time.

I thought about the years I’d skipped buying new clothes so he could go on school trips. The nights I pretended I wasn’t hungry so he could have seconds. The times I told him, “Don’t worry about money,” even when I was terrified.

And now, I was something to be ashamed of.

I’m heartbroken in a way I don’t know how to fix.

Part of me wonders if I should quit. Maybe spare him the embarrassment. Maybe spare myself the humiliation.

But I need this job. The stability. The insurance. The relief of not constantly scrambling.

Another part of me wants to sit him down and make him understand what his words did to me. How they cracked something open that may not close the same way again.

And then there’s the quiet voice that says: step back. Let him grow up. Let him sit with the consequences of his own cruelty.

I keep asking myself if I’m being too sensitive.

If this is just a phase.

If pride is more important than survival.

But when I picture him looking at me like that—like I was beneath him—I know this isn’t just about a job.

It’s about respect.

It’s about whether the sacrifices of a mother mean anything once a child decides they don’t fit his image.

So now I’m left wondering—

Do I walk away from the position that’s finally giving me stability?

Do I push him to confront the hurt he caused?

Or do I stand tall, keep cleaning those glass doors, and trust that one day he’ll understand exactly who kept them open for him?

Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been changed. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustrative purposes only.