My son was a student at Middlebury College when I came to the USA. Struggling with no money, very little English, and the necessity of passing driving exams to drive a car, I eventually got my license, got a car – an old, old, grey color Nissan Stanza with over 275,000 miles on it, and drove to Vermont. At this time, I still was afraid of highways, so I took Route 7 and steered all the way to a little town near Stowe. It took me more than 8 hours to drive, but I made it.

I loved Vermont – its cool nights, and narrow roads, and the place where I stayed with friends felt almost like home. We were so poor at that time that all three of us wore handed-out clothes, had no place to call home, and could not afford anything beyond the basics, at times even not that. When I saw my son after arrival, his shoes were taped with duct tape as they were falling apart. I had saved a little money, and we decided to go to Barre Town and get him new shoes.

Getting into Barre Town was a challenge – narrow roads, lots of cars, and my driving, utterly not American. But we made it. We found a store suggested to my son as a shoe store, went in, selected shoes, and after long contemplations, bought him new shoes with the money I earned cleaning homes. I was so happy, so proud of myself: I drove there all by myself, I had money, I could buy shoes. I felt like I was validating myself, my son, and our life in the USA.

Several months passed, maybe half a year, and I went to Vermont again. Upon arrival, I met my son, and to my huge astonishment, he was wearing shoes taped with duct tape again. I asked him what happened to the “new” shoes I bought, and he showed me shoes with completely severed soles. First, I was shocked, then angry, and finally determined to go back to the store in Barre Town and seek justice.

So, I got in the car, forced my son to get “new” shoes (he brought them from his dorm in the same box we bought them), and we drove. Same nightmare on the road – construction, cars, just to name a few. We reached the Town of Barre and the store. As I browsed the store once more, I saw the same attendant, most likely the owner, as the first time, and the same shoes.

I went to the woman, asked for help, and brought her to the shoes. I asked her how long those shoes would last if I bought them,, and after a moment of silence, she said 2-3 years. I felt absolute triumph. I took out the receipt from my bag, shoes still in the box, and said, “How come these fell apart? We bought them 5-6 months ago.” I do not know how and why I had the receipt, but I do remember handing it to her.

She turned all red, stepped away, and shortly brought me a new pair of shoes. She told me: you tricked me. My son was red too, embarrassed by my actions. I was happy that I got new shoes.

I am trying to remember the price, but I cannot. It was about 22-23 years ago. All I remember is that they cost me more than several days of all-day home cleanings. Why do I remember it now? Well, I remember it for so many reasons, one being that my son has a very different life now from those hardship years, but mostly, I remember this now because my favorite QN sneakers have a little hole around the first toe on the right shoe. I keep wearing them, and every time I put them on, I recall this AmazBella story.

What we see from the outside is only a facade; there is so much more behind it, unseen, unsaid, waiting to be put into words.