Chapter 22: Small Wins
Mary never knew victory in the grand sense—no trophies, no loud applause, no celebrations. But her life was built on small wins, quiet moments of triumph that kept her going.
One of the first came unexpectedly. A spelling test in class. Most students groaned when it was announced, but not Mary. She had spent the past week studying every evening, reading each word aloud in whispers, writing them again and again by candlelight.
When the results came back, Mrs. Raymond smiled gently as she handed Mary her paper.
"Well done. Top of the class."
A perfect score. Her first.
Mary didn't smile broadly, didn't boast. She simply looked down at the red-marked "100%" and felt a warmth swell in her chest. It was hers. She had earned it.
Another time, while washing dishes one evening, her aunt's neighbor, a kind older woman, approached and handed her a small wrapper bundle.
"I had some leftover rice and stew. You've worked hard today."
Mary blinked in surprise. A full meal. Just for her.
She ate it behind the house, spoonful by spoonful, savoring every bite in silence. No scolding. No rushing. Just peace.
And then there were the days she went to school with freshly washed clothes—not because someone washed them, but because she did. She'd wake early, boil water, scrub her uniform on a stone, and hang it to dry before sunrise. It dried stiff and smelled of soap. She wore it with quiet pride.
One afternoon, when she answered a difficult question in front of the class, a boy whispered behind her, "That Mary girl's smart, sha."
He probably didn't know she heard it—but she did. And it meant more to her than he could ever imagine.
Each of these moments was like a crack in the wall that held her in. Little glimpses of light. Little proofs that she was capable. That she mattered.
Mary's life was still hard. But these small wins reminded her of something powerful:
She wasn't just surviving.
She was becoming.