Rich Man Humiliates Boy Shining Shoes in Underpass

The tunnel reverberated with the hurried footsteps of pedestrians. Amid the bustling crowd, 14-year-old Martin remained seated near the wall, his shoe-shining kit neatly arranged in front of him. His gaze darted hopefully at every passing pair of shoes, silently wishing for a customer.

"Just a few," he murmured to himself. "Just a few today, please."

As the hours dragged on, hunger gnawed at his stomach. The modest breakfast of two slices of bread felt like a distant memory. He took a careful sip from his water bottle, hoping to suppress the hunger pangs.

"You’ve got this, Martin," he reassured himself. "For Mom and Josephine."

The thought of his ailing mother, who was unable to walk, and his younger sister waiting at home filled him with determination. He mustered his most welcoming smile, bracing himself for whatever the day had in store.

"Shoe shine, sir? Ma’am?" he called out, though his voice barely carried above the noise of the passageway.

Time slipped by, and still, no one stopped. His hopes began to fade, but he clung to perseverance. As the afternoon sun cast its heat, he allowed himself a brief moment of respite. Digging into his tattered leather bag, he pulled out a small orange, his only meal for the day.

Just as he started peeling it, a pair of scuffed brown leather shoes landed in front of him with a heavy thud.

"Hurry up, kid. Make it quick. I don’t have all day," a gruff voice ordered.

Martin looked up, his heart racing with a mix of anticipation and unease. The man towering over him radiated affluence from head to toe. Perhaps, this was his opportunity for a generous tip.

"Right away, sir!" Martin responded, placing his orange aside and reaching for his supplies.

As he polished the shoes, the man's impatience grew. "What’s taking so long? I don’t have forever!"

Martin’s fingers trembled slightly, but he remained focused on delivering his best work. "Almost finished, sir. I assure you, they’ll look great."

The man scoffed. "At your age, I was already making more money than my father. I wasn’t sitting around shining shoes like some beggar."

His words cut deep. It had been three years since a reckless driver had taken his father’s life, leaving their family shattered. The memory of that dreadful night still haunted Martin—the screeching tires, the horrifying crash, and the heartbreaking news that followed.

Not long after his father’s passing, Martin’s world crumbled even further when his mother, Mariam, suffered a stroke that left her unable to walk. At just eleven years old, he had taken on the role of provider, sacrificing his childhood to continue his father’s legacy as a shoe shiner.

The memories threatened to consume him, but he pushed them away. He had a task to complete. He had a family to support.

"You call this a shine?" the man mocked, inspecting his shoes. "Even my dog could do better with his tongue!"

Martin’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I’m sorry, sir. I can redo it—"

"Forget it," the man interrupted, pulling out his phone. "Yeah, Sylvester here. Push the meeting to 4. I’m running late because of this useless kid."

As Sylvester ranted on the phone, Martin’s mind wandered to a happier time—his father’s warm hands guiding him, teaching him the skill of polishing shoes.

"It’s not just about the shine, son," his father had once said. "It’s about pride. Treat every shoe like it’s the most important one you’ll ever touch."

"Hey! Are you even listening?" Sylvester’s sharp voice jerked Martin back to reality. "What’s your father doing, sending you here? Too lazy to work himself?"

Martin’s throat tightened. "My father... he passed away, sir."

Sylvester’s eyes narrowed. "I see. So your mother probably moved on with some other guy, having more kids to send begging, huh? You people never change."

Martin clenched his fists but forced a composed smile. "That will be $7, sir."

"SEVEN DOLLARS?" Sylvester bellowed. "For this terrible job? Absolutely not."

Before Martin could protest, Sylvester snatched his shoes and stormed off, leaving the boy empty-handed and disheartened.

"Wait!" Martin called after him. "Please, sir! I need that money!"

But Sylvester was already driving away, dust swirling behind him.

Martin slumped against the wall, tears spilling down his face. He gazed up at the sky, picturing his father.

"I’m trying, Dad," he whispered. "I really am."

His father’s last words echoed in his mind: "Remember, son. Every hardship is a step forward. Never lose hope."

Swallowing his sorrow, Martin wiped his tears. There was no time to dwell on pain. He had to keep going.

The next morning, Martin returned to his usual spot, setting up his kit with renewed determination. Suddenly, commotion nearby caught his attention.

"Help! Someone, please help!" a frantic woman’s voice rang out.

Martin rushed toward the source of the panic.

A crowd had gathered around a sleek car. To his shock, he recognized the man inside—Sylvester. The very man who had insulted him the day before.

"He’s choking!" someone shouted. "The doors are locked!"

Without thinking, Martin grabbed a rock and shattered the car window. Glass scattered as he reached inside to unlock the door.

"Move aside!" he commanded, pulling Sylvester onto the pavement.

With swift, firm blows to Sylvester’s back, Martin worked desperately. Moments later, a chunk of apple dislodged from Sylvester’s throat, and he gasped for air.

"You… saved me," Sylvester wheezed, his wide eyes full of shock.

Martin helped him sit up. "Are you alright, sir?"

Sylvester nodded, still catching his breath. "I can’t believe it. After how I treated you… Why did you help me?"

Martin shrugged. "Because it was the right thing to do."

Tears welled in Sylvester’s eyes. "I was terrible to you. Let me make it up to you. Name your price. Anything."

Martin hesitated before replying, "Just the $7 from yesterday."

Sylvester stared in disbelief. "But I could give you so much more. A better future."

Martin shook his head. "I don’t need a new future, sir. I just need to take care of my family."

Reluctantly, Sylvester handed over the money. As the crowd dispersed, he lingered. "You’re remarkable, kid. What’s your name?"

"Martin, sir."

Sylvester gave a slow nod. "Martin. I won’t forget you."

The next morning, Martin awoke to his sister’s excited voice.

"Marty! Look!"

On their doorstep lay a white bag stuffed with cash and a note.

Martin read it aloud, his hands trembling:

"Words can’t express my gratitude. I know you’d refuse this, but you deserve happiness. Took me an hour to find your address. The world is small, isn’t it? Hope we meet again, and I hope you stay as pure-hearted as you are.

— Sylvester."

Tears welled in Martin’s eyes. As his sister squealed with joy, he looked up at the sky and smiled.

"I remember, Dad," he whispered. "I always will."