The Secret Behind a Mother’s Pain That Every Child Should Know

A Short Story –

The sound of scraping soles followed them down the narrow street. A rhythmic shff… shff… as the woman’s shoes dragged against the pavement.

“Mom,” Dika finally said, wrinkling his nose, “your shoes sound weird again.”

His mother chuckled softly, pulling her cardigan tighter against the evening wind. “They’re just old, Son. Still good enough to walk.”

But Dika glanced down. The leather on the sides had cracked, the color faded into a dull gray. At the tip, the stitching had frayed, leaving a tiny gap where dust collected. He thought they looked like shoes that belonged in the garbage.

Inside the house, the smell of fried shallots greeted them, mixed with the faint dampness of laundry drying in the corner. While his mother stirred a pan, Dika leaned against the doorframe.

“Why don’t you buy new ones?” he pressed.

She didn’t look up. “Shoes are just shoes. They still work.”

“But they’re ugly,” Dika muttered. “Everyone at school—” He stopped, ashamed to sound ungrateful.

His mother smiled, though her eyes looked tired. “Ugly shoes still carry me where I need to go.”

A week later, Saturday morning arrived with the scent of fresh rain on the soil. Dika sat on the floor, tying his shoelaces, when he noticed something strange on the table—an envelope, slightly open, filled with folded bills. Next to it lay a receipt.

He picked it up. The paper smelled faintly of ink and new leather. His eyes widened as he read:

“School Shoes – Size 38 – Paid in Full.”

He froze. His gaze shifted to the envelope—inside, just a few small bills left. Slowly, his stomach tightened.

The dragging sound of those worn shoes echoed in his head. The cracks, the holes. And suddenly, he understood.

His mother entered the room, carrying a basket of laundry. “Dika, what are you—” She stopped when she saw the receipt in his hand.

There was silence. The soft drip of rain from the roof filled the air.

“You… bought me new shoes,” Dika whispered.

She sighed, placing the laundry down. “You needed them more than I did.”

“But… your shoes—” His throat tightened. “They’re falling apart.”

She walked closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her palm smelled faintly of detergent. “One day, you’ll learn, Son. Parents don’t mind walking in worn shoes… as long as their children walk comfortably.”

Dika’s eyes stung. He looked down at his old shoes on the floor, then back at her weary ones. Without thinking, he blurted out, “When I’m older, I’ll buy you a hundred pairs of shoes.”

She laughed, the sound warm like soup on a cold night. “I don’t need a hundred, Dika. Just one pair… bought with love.”

The dragging sound of her shoes would never bother him again. Instead, every shff… shff… reminded him of a quiet sacrifice, one he promised never to forget.