DISEASE

"She didn't dream of palaces—just a classroom, a pencil, and a reason to be proud of herself."

"She didn't dream of palaces—just a classroom, a pencil, and a reason to be proud of herself."

There was a school near the market—large yellow walls, white gates, and a small flag fluttering with tired pride. Every time Mun passed by with her mother, holding onto the end of her mother's faded sari, she would crane her neck to look inside. She watched children in crisp uniforms laughing, running, shouting. They looked happy. They looked like they belonged somewhere.

Mun wanted that. Not the uniform, not the shoes—she wanted the feeling.

It became a ritual. Every time she walked past the school, she imagined herself inside. Holding books, raising her hand in class, answering confidently, making teachers nod in approval. In her mind, she was always smiling. Always accepted.

One day, while walking with her father, she finally said, "I want to study here."

Her father gave her a gentle smile and nodded. But Mun could see something else behind that smile—hesitation, maybe even guilt. Still, she clung to hope. When they finally moved to a new city in 2014, she spotted a branch of that very same school. This time, it was closer. Achievable.

She asked to be enrolled. Her mother hesitated but eventually agreed. There was an entrance test, and Mun had never taken one before. She had studied from borrowed books, old notes, hand-me-down knowledge. Nobody had ever taught her how to take a test like that. Still, she tried. Answered every question she could. Her hands were shaking when she handed in the paper.

She failed.

The disappointment in her parents' eyes felt heavier than the test itself. Her mother didn't scream that time—but her silence was louder. Her father muttered something about other kids getting in easily, and Mun's heart broke quietly in the background.

What they didn't see was that she had no guidance, no tutoring, no help. She didn't know the format. She didn't even know what some of the words meant. But none of that mattered. She wasn't enough, again.

But Mun didn't give up. She tried again. She spent months practicing in secret. Asked questions to classmates in her old school. Borrowed books. Memorized formulas by writing them on scraps of paper and sticking them to the walls of their tiny room.

And then in 2015—she passed. She was accepted.

That day, when she wore her new uniform—still slightly too big—and walked through those white gates, she felt something shift. She had made it. Not through privilege, not through luck, but through sheer will.

For the first time in her life, she saw something rare in her parents' eyes: pride.

It didn't last long. But it existed. And Mun held onto it like treasure.

Her new school was different. The students were sharper, the teachers stricter. Mun wasn't the smartest in the room, but she was the most determined. She stayed behind after class. She rewrote her notes again and again. She tried so hard—sometimes too hard. And even though her grades were only good, not excellent, she received a scholarship for effort. It was the first thing she ever earned by herself.

At home, her mother didn't celebrate. "Others got full scholarships," she said flatly.

But Mun didn't let that destroy her. Because she knew what she had overcome to get there.

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