But something in me shifted. It wasn’t just embarrassment—it was this raw shame I didn’t know I was carrying until that moment. I hadn’t known we were “less than.” Not really. Not until I got compared to “normal.”

I didn’t go back to Shayla’s house after that.

When I got home, I told my mom what happened. She stayed quiet for a while, just sat at the sink peeling potatoes. Then she said, “Don’t worry. One day, you’ll sit at your own table. And you’ll know how to treat people.”

I didn’t understand it then. But now, years later, that moment rewired something in me.

Back then, we lived in a one-bedroom apartment above a laundromat in Glendale. My mom cleaned houses