My name is Zia. Since I was little, I have carried a question that has never been answered: Why did my parents leave me? I have never seen their faces. I don’t know what their voices sound like or what it feels like to be wrapped in their arms. There are no photographs, no letters, no explanations—just silence. Growing up, I used to imagine they would come back one day. I would picture them standing at our small wooden door, apologizing, telling me they never meant to leave. But as the years passed and no one came, hope slowly turned into pain. Eventually, I stopped imagining. It hurt too much. The only love I ever truly knew came from my grandparents. We were desperately poor. The kind of poor where you learn to ignore hunger and pretend you’re full. But with them, I never felt unwanted. My grandfather worked at construction sites. Before the sun even rose, he would quietly put on his old boots and leave for work so he wouldn’t wake me. His job was dangerous. He carried heavy sacks of cement, climbed unstable scaffolding, and worked under the burning heat for hours. When he came home at night, his hands were rough and cracked, his body shaking from exhaustion. Yet he always smiled at me. He would ask, “How was school?” like my answer was the most important thing in the world. My grandmother sold banana cue by the roadside. Every morning, I woke up to the smell of sugar melting in hot oil. She would carefully fry the bananas until they turned golden and glossy, then place them on sticks to sell. She stood under the scorching sun for hours, calling out to customers. Some days she came home with barely enough money for rice. Still, she would smile and say, “It’s okay, apo. Tomorrow will be better.” Our house was small and weak. When it rained, water leaked through the roof. When storms came, the walls trembled. But inside that fragile house, I felt safe. At night, when thunder scared me, I would sleep between my grandparents. My grandmother would hum soft songs while my grandfather fixed broken furniture. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. School was different. My classmates noticed everything—my faded uniform, my old shoes, my simple lunch. They asked about my parents, and when I couldn’t answer, they filled the silence with cruel words. “Maybe they didn’t want you.” “Maybe you were a mistake.” “That’s why you’re poor.” I pretended not to care, but their words followed me home. At night, I would lie awake and cry quietly. Sometimes I wondered if they were right. Still, I studied hard. I wanted to give my grandparents a better life. I dreamed of building them a stronger house, of buying medicine for my grandmother, of letting my grandfather finally rest. But when I was twelve, everything fell apart. One afternoon, I was called to the principal’s office. There had been an…