I WORKED 4 JOBS WHILE ATTENDING UNIVERSITY ABROAD. ONE NIGHT, MY PROFESSOR WALKED INTO THE RESTAURANT WHERE I WAS WASHING DISHES. WHAT HE DID NEXT STILL HURTS TO REMEMBER. My alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. By 5:15, I was unloading delivery trucks at a grocery store. At 9, I was in lectures, trying to keep my eyes open while everyone else took notes. After class, I cleaned tables at a café. On Fridays and Saturdays, I worked evening shifts at a restaurant, washing dishes until my fingers wrinkled and my back ached. On Sundays, I delivered groceries to elderly residents in my neighbourhood. Four jobs. One degree. And a scholarship that covered only part of my tuition. I had moved abroad believing that getting into university was the hardest part. Nobody told me how expensive it would be to stay there. My parents had sold what they could to help me relocate. Calling home to ask for more money was never an option. Whenever my mother asked how I was doing, I told her I was fine. Sometimes, I ate leftover sandwiches from the café because buying proper food meant choosing between lunch and my transport fare. I owned two decent shirts. I washed them by hand at night and hung them near the radiator so they would dry before morning. My classmates invited me to parties. I always had an excuse. The truth was, I couldn’t afford to spend three hours having fun when those same three hours could earn me enough to buy groceries for the week. Then came Thursday night. I was standing in the restaurant kitchen, wearing a stained apron, scrubbing a mountain of greasy plates. My lecture notes were folded inside my backpack beneath the counter. Someone called my name. I turned around. It was Professor Whitmore, the man who taught one of my most difficult courses. He looked at me, then at the pile of dishes in front of me. “You’re working here?” I nodded, suddenly embarrassed. He was one of the professors who had praised my performance in class. I had answered difficult questions, submitted assignments early, and scored among the highest in my department. Now he was watching me scrape food off strangers’ plates. “I didn’t know you had a job,” he said. “Actually, sir, I have four.” He didn’t respond immediately. I explained that I was trying to cover the portion of my tuition my scholarship didn’t pay. I told him about the grocery store, the café, the restaurant, and the weekend deliveries. I tried to laugh while explaining it, as if working myself exhausted was some funny university experience. He wasn’t laughing. “How many hours do you sleep?” “Enough, sir.” It was a lie. He glanced at the clock above the kitchen door. It was nearly midnight. Then he asked something I wasn’t prepared for. “When was the last time you studied without worrying about how you were going to pay for next semester?” I couldn’t answer.