I heard my son say he was ashamed of my job

Dear Delyara, I clean offices at night in the tower where my son’s school friend’s father works. Yesterday, my son visited the building with the friend’s family. I was emptying bins on the twenty-first floor when I heard voices in the corridor. Before they turned the corner, my son said, “My dad works in another building.” He had seen my trolley. He knew I was there. I stepped into a supply room and waited until they passed. He is fourteen. I understand that shame comes easily at that age, especially in a city where children compare watches, cars, and surnames. Still, I stood among bottles of disinfectant feeling as though my own child had erased me while I was close enough to hear it. At home, he asked why I was quiet. I told him I was tired. His mother wanted me to confront him, but I could not. I remember being fourteen and ashamed that my own father sold fruit from a cart. I once crossed the street so classmates would not see us together. He never mentioned it. Perhaps he had seen me too. Tonight, while cleaning glass walls that reflect my uniform from every direction, I keep wondering whether forgiveness sometimes begins with recognising the cruelty you inherited from your younger self.