“It’s Honest Work”
My dad came home every day smelling of metal, sweat, exhaust.
His hands were calloused.
His back hurt most nights.
Some evenings he barely spoke because exhaustion had taken everything else.
But he never missed a parent-teacher conference.
Never forgot my birthday.
Never made me feel like I was too much.
When people asked what he did, he answered plainly:
“I work for the city. Sanitation.”
And then he’d add, without shame:
“It’s honest work. And it keeps the city running.”
I didn’t realize how rare that kind of pride was until much later.
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