My in-laws tried to quietly expel my dad from my wedding because he’s a garbage collector. They said it was for “appearances.” I was shaking with anger when my dad calmly asked for the microphone… and the room never recovered from what he said.
My name’s Anna, and the man who raised me works for the city.
My dad, Joe, has worked as a garbage collector for as long as I can remember.
Sanitation department. Garbage collection. Whatever you want to call it — he’s been doing it since I was a toddler.
My dad, Joe, has worked as a garbage collector.
My mom died when I was three years old.
Cancer. Fast and cruel. One day she was there; the next she was in the hospital, and then she was gone. No warning. No time to prepare.
After that, it was just my dad and me in a small two-bedroom apartment on the south side of town. The kind of place where the radiator clanked in winter and the windows stuck in summer. But the rent was stable, and we made it work.
We didn’t have much, but we always had enough.
My mom died when I was three years old.
The heat stayed on. The lights worked. There was always food; sometimes just pasta and butter, sometimes scrambled eggs for dinner. But there was always something.
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