The notification popped up on my phone, another Instagram post from Grandma Rose. I sighed, tapping on the icon. There she was, her face smoothed and airbrushed beyond recognition, a pair of oversized, cartoonish sunglasses perched on her nose. A cascade of digital sparkles rained down around her. The caption read, “Feeling my vibe! #OOTD #YOLO #GrandmaGoals.”
My stomach churned. At first, it had been a novelty, a quirky, endearing quirk of my 81-year-old grandmother. But now, weeks into her social media blitz, it was bordering on unbearable.
It had started innocently enough. She’d asked me to help her set up an Instagram account, intrigued by the photos I’d shown her of my travels and friends. I’d thought it was a sweet way for her to stay connected with the family, a digital scrapbook of sorts.
But Grandma Rose had taken to Instagram like a fish to water, or rather, like a teenager to a viral trend. She’d discovered the world of filters, the power of hashtags, and the allure of online validation. Suddenly, she was posting multiple times a day, each photo more heavily filtered than the last.
The captions were a whole other level of cringe. She’d pepper them with slang I barely understood, phrases like “slay,” “lit,” and “no cap.” She’d even started using emojis, a barrage of hearts, stars, and laughing faces that seemed to clash with her gentle, grandmotherly image.
The pinnacle of my mortification came when she asked me, with wide, earnest eyes, how to do a “get ready with me” video. “You know, darling,” she’d said, her voice brimming with excitement, “like those lovely young ladies on the internet. I want to show everyone my makeup routine!”
I’d choked on my coffee. My makeup routine consisted of moisturizer and a swipe of mascara. Grandma Rose’s “makeup routine” involved a dusting of powder and a dab of lipstick.
The worst part was, my entire family was egging her on. They’d shower her with likes and comments, calling her “amazing,” “inspiring,” and “a social media queen.” They were completely oblivious to my growing dread.
I was trapped in a vortex of secondhand embarrassment. What if my friends saw these posts? What if my coworkers stumbled upon her profile? I could already imagine the whispers, the snickers, the awkward attempts at polite conversation.
I found myself avoiding family gatherings, dreading the inevitable discussions about Grandma Rose’s latest post. I’d scroll through my feed, wincing at each new notification, my finger hovering over the “unfollow” button, a button I couldn’t bring myself to press.
One evening, I found myself sitting across from my mom, the glow of her phone illuminating her face as she scrolled through Grandma Rose’s profile. “Isn’t she just the cutest?” she gushed, showing me a photo of Grandma Rose with a digital halo and angel wings.
“Mom,” I said, my voice strained, “don’t you think this is… a little much?”
My mom looked at me, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean? She’s having fun. She’s expressing herself.”
“But it’s not her,” I argued. “It’s like she’s trying to be someone else.”
“She’s adapting, darling,” my mom said, her voice gentle. “She’s embracing technology. She’s living her best life.”
I knew I wasn’t going to win this argument. My family, in their well-meaning attempt to support Grandma Rose, were completely blind to the awkwardness of the situation.
I decided to try a different approach. The next time Grandma Rose asked me for help with her Instagram, I sat down with her and gently explained the concept of “authenticity.” I showed her photos of herself, unfiltered and unedited, her smile genuine, her eyes sparkling with wisdom.
“You’re beautiful just the way you are, Grandma,” I said, my voice sincere. “You don’t need filters or slang to be amazing.”
She looked at the photos, her eyes softening. “Do you really think so, darling?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
“Absolutely,” I said, squeezing her hand.
Grandma Rose didn’t stop posting, but she did tone it down. The filters became less intense, the captions more genuine. She even started sharing stories from her life, anecdotes that were both heartwarming and hilarious.
And slowly, I began to appreciate her online presence. I realized that it wasn’t about trying to be an influencer; it was about Grandma Rose finding her own way to connect with the world, to express her joy, to simply be herself. And in the end, that was more than enough.
Rich Man Humiliates Boy Shining Shoes in Underpass
“My dog could do a better job with his tongue!” A wealthy man insults a poor boy shining shoes in an underpass and refuses to pay. But fate brings them face-to-face again the very next day, with a surprising twist neither could have expected.
The underground passage echoed with the shuffle of hurried footsteps. Amidst the hustle, 14-year-old Martin sat quietly by the wall, his shoe-shining kit spread before him. His eyes darted hopefully at each passing shoe, praying for a customer…
A teenage boy sitting in an underpass | Source: Midjourney
“Just a handful,” he whispered to himself. “Just a handful today, please.”
As the day wore on, Martin’s stomach growled in protest. The meager breakfast of two bread slices felt like a distant memory. He reached for his water bottle, taking a small sip to quell the hunger pangs.
“You can do this, Martin,” he told himself. “For Mom and Josephine.”
The thought of his paralyzed mother and little sister waiting at home bolstered his courage. He plastered on his best smile, ready to tackle whatever the day would bring.
A sad boy in an underpass | Source: Midjourney
“Shoe shine, sir? Ma’am?” he called out, his voice barely audible above the din of the underpass.
Hours ticked by, but no one stopped. Martin’s hopes began to dwindle, but he refused to give up. As the afternoon sun beat down, he finally allowed himself a moment of respite. Digging into his worn leather bag, he pulled out a small orange, his lunch for the day.
Just as he began to peel it, a pair of dirty brown leather shoes landed in front of him with a heavy thud.
“Hurry up, kid. Clean it. I’m in a rush,” a gruff voice barked.
A brown leather shoe | Source: Pexels
Martin looked up, his heart racing with excitement and trepidation. The man towering above him exuded wealth from head to toe. This could be his chance for a good tip.
“Right away, sir!” Martin said, setting aside his orange and reaching for his supplies.
As he worked on the brown leather shoes, the man’s impatience grew. “What’s taking so long? I don’t have all day!”
A person brushing a brown shoe | Source: Pexels
Martin’s hands trembled slightly, but he focused on giving his best service. “Almost done, sir. I promise it’ll look great.”
The man scoffed. “At your age, I was already making more than my father. I wasn’t shining shoes like some beggar.”
Those words stung poor Martin. It had been three years since a drunk driver had taken his father’s life, leaving their family shattered. The memory of that fateful night still haunted Martin—the screeching tires, the sickening crunch of metal, and the devastating news that followed.
A grave in a cemetery | Source: Pexels
Just months after losing his father, Martin’s world crumbled further when his mother Mariam suffered a stroke, leaving her paralyzed. At just eleven years old, he had shouldered the burden of a provider, sacrificing his childhood to follow in his late father’s footsteps as a shoe shiner.
The memories threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed them aside. He had a job to finish. He had a family to feed.
“You call this shining?” the man sneered, examining his shoe. “My dog could do a better job with his tongue!”
A wealthy senior man | Source: Freepik
Martin’s cheeks burned with shame. “I’m sorry, sir. I can try again—”
“Forget it,” the man cut him off, pulling out his phone. “Yeah, Sylvester here. Reschedule the meeting to 4. I’ll be late, thanks to this incompetent brat.”
As Sylvester ranted into his phone, Martin’s mind drifted to happier times. He remembered his father’s gentle hands guiding him, teaching him the art of shoe shining.
A distressed teenage boy | Source: Midjourney
“It’s not just about the shine, son,” he’d say. “It’s about dignity. Treat every shoe like it’s the most important one you’ll ever touch.”
“Hey! Are you even listening?” Sylvester’s sharp voice yanked Martin back to reality. “What’s your father doing, sending you out here like this? Too lazy to work himself, huh?”
Martin’s throat tightened. “My father… he passed away, sir.”
Close-up of a sad teenage boy | Source: Midjourney
Sylvester’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. So your mother’s probably moved on with someone else, popping out more kids to send begging, right? Don’t you people have anything better to do?”
Martin’s fists clenched at his sides, but he forced a polite smile. “That’s $7, sir.”
“SEVEN DOLLARS?” Sylvester exploded. “For this pathetic excuse of a shine? I don’t think so, kid.”
Before Martin could react, Sylvester grabbed his shoes and stormed off, leaving Martin empty-handed and heartbroken.
A frustrated senior man | Source: Freepik
“Wait!” he called out, chasing after the man. “Please, sir! I need that money. Please!”
But Sylvester was already in his car, speeding away, leaving poor Martin stranded in a cloud of dust and disappointment.
He slumped against the wall, tears streaming down his face. He looked up at the sky, imagining his father’s face.
“I’m trying, Dad,” he whispered. “I’m really trying.”
His father’s last words echoed in his mind: “Remember, son. Never give up. Each bump is a step closer to your dreams. Remember.”
A sad boy looking up | Source: Midjourney
Wiping his tears, Martin returned to his spot. There was no time for self-pity. No time for tears.
The next morning, Martin was back at his usual spot, setting up his kit with determination. Suddenly, a commotion nearby caught his attention.
“Help! Someone help!” a woman’s frantic voice pierced the air.
Martin rushed towards the sound, his heart pounding.
A startled senior woman covering her mouth | Source: Freepik
A small crowd had gathered around a fancy car, and to his shock, he recognized the man inside. SYLVESTER. The same entitled man who had insulted him.
“He’s choking on an apple!” someone yelled. “The car doors are locked!”
Without hesitation, Martin grabbed a rock from the roadside and smashed the car window. Glass shattered everywhere as he reached in to unlock the door.
“Stand back!” he shouted, pulling Sylvester out onto the pavement.
A car with a broken window | Source: Pixabay
With all his might, Martin delivered several sharp blows to Sylvester’s back. Suddenly, a chunk of apple flew from Sylvester’s mouth, and he gasped for air.
“You… you saved me,” Sylvester wheezed, looking up at Martin with wide, shocked eyes.
Martin helped him to his feet, his own hands shaking. “Are you okay, sir?”
Sylvester nodded, still catching his breath. “I can’t believe it. After how I treated you yesterday… Why did you help me?”
Martin shrugged. “It was the right thing to do.”
A thoughtful senior man holding his glasses | Source: Pexels
Sylvester’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry, kid. I was horrible to you. Please, let me make it up to you. Name your price. Anything!”
Martin thought for a moment, then looked up. “Just the $7 from yesterday. That’s all I want.”
Sylvester stared at him in disbelief. “But… I could give you so much more. A new start, maybe?”
Martin shook his head. “I don’t need a new start, sir. I just need to take care of my family.”
Side view of a teenage boy | Source: Midjourney
Reluctantly, Sylvester handed over the money. As the crowd dispersed, he lingered, studying Martin’s face. “You’re quite something, kid. What’s your name?”
“Martin, sir.”
Sylvester nodded slowly. “Martin. I won’t forget this… or you.”
As Sylvester walked away to his car, Martin clutched the hard-earned money in his fist. He looked up at the sky again, a small smile beaming on his face.
“I remember, Dad,” he whispered. “I always do.”
A smiling teenage boy looking up | Source: Midjourney
The next morning, Martin was jolted awake by his sister’s excited screams.
“Marty! Marty! Come quick!”
He rushed outside, his mother calling after them in confusion. There, on their doorstep, sat a white bag bulging with cash and a note.
A bag full of cash | Source: Pexels
With trembling hands, Martin read aloud:
“Thanks is a small word for what you did. I know you’d refuse this. But you deserve a happy childhood. Took me just an hour to find your address. The world’s a small place, isn’t it?! Hope we meet again someday, and I hope you’re just the pure heart of gold you are!
— Sylvester.”
Tears of joy and shock filled Martin’s eyes. His sister jumped up and down, and their mother called out from inside, clearly shocked at seeing so much money.
“Martin? What’s going on?” she approached in her wheelchair.
A woman in a wheelchair | Source: Pexels
Martin’s mind raced. This money could change everything: his mother’s treatment, Josephine’s education, and their entire future. But was it right to accept it?
He walked to the small altar in their cottage, grabbing two pieces of paper. On one, he wrote “REMEMBER,” and on the other, “FORGET.” He folded them, shuffling them with his hands.
Lighting a candle before the crucifix, Martin closed his eyes. “Dad,” he whispered, “help me make the right choice.”
A burning wax candle against the backdrop of a cross | Source: Pexels
With a deep breath, he picked up a piece of folded paper and slowly opened it. A small smile lit up his face when he saw the word “REMEMBER.”
In that moment, Martin knew. He would accept the money, not for himself, but for his family. He would remember his father’s lessons, his own struggles, and the kindness that can exist even in the hardest of hearts.
A young boy smiling | Source: Midjourney
“Josephine!” he called out, his voice brewing with emotion. “Go tell Mom we’re going to the doctor today. And then… maybe we’ll stop for ice cream on the way home. Get Mom a new comfy mattress. And lots of groceries for the entire week!”
As Josephine’s delighted squeals filled the air, Martin clutched the note to his chest. He had remembered, and in doing so, he had found a way forward.
Side view of a happy boy | Source: Midjourney
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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