I grew up in a remote mountain village. Every day, my parents worked the field from dawn to dusk. We had very little money, barely enough for our basic needs.
One day, I wanted to buy a handkerchief. All the girls from the village wore them, so I did not want to be worse. I stole money from my father’s wallet. He immediately noticed the theft and asked me and my brother who did it. I didn’t admit it because I simply afraid. He was angry and said that if no one admits it, we will both incur punishment. Suddenly, my younger brother raised his hand and said that he stole it.
I cried all night, and my little brother was holding my hand and calmed me down.
“Stop crying. Whatever happened, happened. We can’t turn back the clock”, he comforted me.
I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was eight years old and I was 11. For a long time, I hated myself for not having the courage to admit it. Years passed and I remember this situation as if it happened yesterday.
When my brother was a senior in high school, he was admitted to college in the city. At the same time, I already studied at university. One day, I heard my father’s conversation with my mother. He smoked cigarettes one by one and asked her if both of their children have equally good grades.
My mother replied tearfully:
“And what does it matter, after all, if we do not have the money to pay for the education of our daughter or our son?”
This is just the beginning of this moving story. Go to the next page to read on.