The memory of that day burns in my mind—the day I stole a glance at my parents' bed as they slept their desperate midday nap. Just hours earlier, they'd toiled relentlessly under the punishing sun, completing their morning chores. Even in their slumber, they couldn't hide the exhaustion that seeped from their pores, painting a picture of profound pity across my heart.

My father's grueling labor came to mind – hours spent in the unforgiving river, back bent, collecting sand and gravel. Each bucket filled, each step in the burning heat was an act of quiet defiance against the injustice of his situation. I thought of the weight of his responsibility, a source of income that could never stretch far enough, never enough to silence the growling stomachs of my four siblings. An income that couldn't cover the worn books in our hands, or the threadbare clothes on our backs. An income too meager for all the endless needs a family holds. But my father, he never relented. He sought extra hours, any scrap of a job, anything to squeeze out a few more coins for our meager meals.

My mother, she shouldered a burden no less heavy. I pictured her, the miles she walked from our humble home to the store, the strain on her shoulders as she carried that immense sack of bananas. I envisioned her arrival back home, the sweat on her brow, only to bear witness to us children, blissfully naive, fighting over foolish nothings. Imagine the dull ache in her heart, the bitter irony of it all.

Then, as I watched them sleep, I saw the fleeting flicker of a smile cross their faces. A facade, a valiant deception to mask their suffering from us. They pretended, desperately, so that we wouldn't know the true weight they carried – the discontent, the crushing fatigue of a life that seemed an endless struggle. A revelation struck me then, a bitter pang in my young chest – life was not meant to be this hard. It was in that moment, I think, that the weight of their pain became my own.