My grandmother never went to school. Life did not give her that chance. She lost her husband when her second child was only six months old, and in that moment, everything rested on her shoulders. She became both mother and father, provider and protector, carrying grief quietly while raising children who depended entirely on her strength.
She was a trader. Every day meant uncertainty—no fixed income, no promises of profit. Yet she woke up early, worked tirelessly, and returned home exhausted, knowing she still had children to feed and school fees to find. Many times, she went without so her children could have enough. She did not complain. She endured.
What she did have was faith. She prayed constantly—for her children, for their future, and for the generations that would come after them. She prayed for education she never received, believing it would open doors her hands could not. She insisted that her children go to school, even when it was hard, even when it seemed impossible.
Her prayers did not stop with her children. She prayed for her grandchildren too—futures she would never fully see. She planted seeds with hope, trusting that one day they would grow.
Today, those seeds have become something extraordinary. Her grandchildren are doctors. Their achievements carry her sacrifice. Their success is her story continued.
I often wish she were alive to see this—to see how far her faith has reached, how her prayers have shaped lives. But her legacy is already visible. It lives in every life she touched, every dream she made possible.
She never wore a white coat, but she stands behind every one of them.
