My name is Miguel, son of a garbage dump.
Since I was a child I knew how difficult our life was.
While other kids played with new toys and ate fast food, I waited for leftovers from the carrindería.

Every day, my mother woke up early.
He carried a large sack and walked to the garbage dump of the market, looking for our sustenance there.
The heat, the bad smell, the wounds on their hands from fish bones or wet cardboard…
But I was never, ever ashamed of her.

I was six years old when I was first humiliated.

“You suck!”
“You came from the dumpster, right?”
“Son of the garbage can, ha ha ha!”

And with each laugh, I felt like I was sinking deeper into the ground.
When I got home, I was crying silently.
One night my mother asked me:

“Son, why are you so sad?”
I just smiled.
“Nothing, Mom. I’m just tired.

But in reality, I was breaking inside.

Years passed.
From elementary to high school, the story was the same.
No one wanted to sit next to me.
In group work, he was always the last to be chosen.
On excursions, I was never invited.

“Son of the garbage dump”… That seemed to be my name.

But even so, I never complained.
I didn’t fight.
I didn’t speak ill of anyone.
I just focused on studying.

While they played in the Internet cafes, I saved up to photocopy my notes.
While they were buying new cell phones, I walked long blocks to save the fare.
And every night, while my mother slept by her sack of bottles, I said to myself:

“Someday, Mom… we will rise from this.”

Graduation arrived.
As I entered the gym, I heard laughter and murmurs:

“That’s Michael, the son of the garbage dump.”
“Surely he doesn’t even have new clothes.”

But I didn’t care anymore.
After twelve years, there I was — magna laude.

At the back of the room I saw my mother.
She was wearing an old blouse, with dust stains, and in her hand her old cell phone with a broken screen.
But to me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

When they called my name:

“First place — Miguel Ramos!”

I got up shaking and walked to the stage.
As he received the medal, applause filled the place.
But when I took the microphone… Silence fell.

“Thank you to my teachers, my classmates, and everyone present.
But most of all, thanks to the person many of you used to despise — my mother, the garbage collector.”

Silence.
No one was breathing.

“Yes, I am the son of a garbage dump.
But if it weren’t for every bottle, every can, and every piece of plastic he collected,
I wouldn’t have food, or notebooks, and I wouldn’t be here today.
That’s why, if there’s one thing I’m proud of, it’s not this medal…
but of my mother, the most worthy woman in the world, the real reason for my success.”

The entire gym was silent.
Then I heard a sob… and another…
Until everyone — teachers, parents, students — was crying.

My companions, the same ones who had avoided me before, came closer.

“Miguel… Forgive. We were wrong.”

I smiled with tears in my eyes.

“Nothing happens. The important thing is that now they know that you don’t have to be rich to be worthy.”

After the ceremony, I hugged my mother.

“Mom, this is for you.
Every medal, every achievement… it’s for your dirty hands but your heart clean.”

She cried as she caressed my face.

“Son, thank you.
I don’t need to be rich… I’m already the luckiest because I have a son like you.”

And that day, in front of thousands of people, I understood something:
the richest person is not the one who has money,
but the one who has a heart that loves, even when the world despises her.