Chapter 3

Over those eight years, between my father's death and my mother's abandonment, I felt a deep sense of loneliness and helplessness. Imagine being a child and feeling like no one wants you. No one to hug you, comfort you, promise that everything will be okay, protect you, or simply say they love you.

When I think back to that time, I often remember my early school years. I don't know how it was for others, but I ended up being an outcast in my class. Almost no one talked to me. I wasn't invited to birthdays, no one wanted to sit next to me at school. I was a confused, poorly dressed, skinny kid who smelled bad. Who would want to be friends with someone like that? Certainly no one, as far as I could tell.

I was a child who became the target of my classmates' bullying and was ignored by most of the teachers, who turned a blind eye, pretending everything was fine.

While other kids were exploring the world, receiving gifts and attention from their families, experiencing the best parts of life, and just being children, I was focused on survival—not starving, not freezing, and taking care of my perpetually drunk mother, who would spiral into hysterics, oblivious to the world around her, refusing to see me as her child.

I was deeply ashamed of all this. I was ashamed of how I looked and how I smelled. Over time, that shame grew into an overwhelming hatred. Hatred became my constant companion. It was directed at fate, at my father who died, at my mother who gave up and drowned herself in alcohol. But most of all, I hated myself. That hatred ate away at me from the inside. I hated everything that had led me to that situation. I hated the shame I felt.

I still remember one particular incident at school. I'll never forget that day. During one of my darkest moments, a girl I really wanted to be friends with came up to me and mockingly asked why my breath smelled so bad and why I was so unkempt. Then she called me a "stinky beggar" and said everyone thought I was a "bastard." She told me she would never be friends with someone like me. She repeated the word "never," looked at me like I was some kind of germ, and walked away.

That was the first time I heard the word "bastard." I didn't even know what it meant back then.

Her words were so full of disdain that they cut deep. They hurt so much that I cried into my pillow until morning. The next day, when I returned to school, I couldn't look anyone in the eye—I just walked around with my head down. In my usual state—humiliated and defeated.

I often asked myself, "I've never done anything bad to anyone. Why are they treating me like this?" I didn't understand the real reason for their hatred toward me.

Or maybe I just didn't want to understand and pushed those thoughts away.

Yes, children can be cruel, and that's an inevitable part of childhood. A world of survival that's not really meant for children but is very much an adult world—full of aggression, an inability to hide true feelings, and a lack of concern for others. Childlike, but with a special kind of cruelty.

But even then, I had one small window into a different world. The only person I could share my problems with was my Uncle David. And that was the only thing that brought me joy on the rare days he came to visit.

A few days after that incident, he came over, and I gathered the courage to tell him about the bullying and mistreatment I was enduring at school. His reaction was immediate—he was deeply upset. I had never seen him so nervous and concerned. The more I opened up to him, pouring out my heart, the more his face changed: it turned red, and his hands shook with anger. He smoked nervously, looking at me through the thick cigarette smoke. He had no idea things were that bad.

He made me promise that I would never hide anything from him again and that I would always tell him what was bothering me.

After our talk, he decided to take me to a store. There, he bought me everything I needed.

I stared at it all in disbelief, gathered it in my arms, and thanked him profusely. The scene was heartbreaking. I even feel sorry for that kid now.

I used those things so sparingly that they lasted me a long time. And saving everything I could became my second nature, my way of life.

I can say that Uncle David gave me what he could at that time. Reflecting on my childhood and his role in it, I realize that, despite everything, I will always be grateful to him for what he did for me during those years.

But even in that joyful moment, I knew Uncle David wouldn't always be there. I understood that I wasn't like everyone else. I would always be someone's target for mockery, someone people could wipe their dirty shoes on. That's the law of the jungle.

I've always been honest with myself, and admitting this, I'm sure: "If I were in their place, I'd probably laugh at someone like me too." But the reality was—I wasn't them. I was the one being laughed at and despised.

That's when I made my first conscious decision, one that changed me and my life forever. I promised myself that, no matter what, I wouldn't break. I wouldn't give up and would keep fighting. No matter what!

"Better me than them!" became my motto in those years.

At just nine years old, I decided that my fight wouldn't be with people, not with my classmates, not with society, not with my late father, whom I still love more than life itself, and not with my mother, who had been robbed of everything precious, which had broken her—but with myself.

I realized that if I wanted to achieve something, I had to take action myself, not wait for handouts, and start earning my own money. I was ready to do any job to reach my goal. Truthfully, at that moment, I didn't fully grasp the importance of it, and I didn't have a specific goal, but having a goal for the sake of a goal was still a good start.

I was ready to move mountains, and if necessary, break necks.

My father was always my ideal. I kept telling myself, "I'm no worse than my father! If he worked at a construction site, so can I. I can do anything!" "I won't let him down!"

Those words became a kind of mantra for me. They helped me get through the tough times.

So, I decided to find a job. Every day after school, I'd go wherever my feet took me. I approached shops, cafes, parking lots—looking for work anywhere I could.

Days and weeks passed, but I still had no luck. Everywhere I went, I was turned away with the words, "Go study, kid!"

But I didn't give up and kept searching. And one day, luck finally smiled on me—I found my first job.

At the moment when I was ready to give up and stopped believing I could find anything, I still went out to look. I walked aimlessly, going wherever my feet took me. As I continued searching, approaching people and asking if they needed help, I noticed a sign: "Worker needed." For a moment, I thought they'd chase me away again. But I decided to take the risk and approach.

There were a lot of people outside, all rushing somewhere. In front of a cafe, by the door, stood a big, scary, heavyset man. I was nervous but still walked up to him. Looking up, I asked:

"Mister, do you have any work for me? Anything at all? I'm begging you! I'll do anything!"

It turned out he was the owner of the place. He looked at me with his round eyes, adjusted his pants, and in a gruff voice asked:

"Anything at all?"

"Anything! Anything!" I replied, my voice trembling slightly.

Suddenly, he grabbed my hand and led me into the cafe. I was so scared I almost cried. I thought he was one of those people who tied little kids to a post and threw them bones for fun.

I was terrified, but I held it together, trying not to show my fear.

In an instant, I was inside. He looked at me again and, perhaps realizing he'd scared me, smiled. His eyes sparkled. In that moment, I saw his inner world—it was full of kindness, and his smile is still vivid in my mind.

"Don't be scared, kid. I was once in your shoes. I'll help you."

At that moment, my breath caught, and my heart slowed as he continued:

"So, what can you do? Can you wash dishes?" he asked.

"I'll wash anything dirty in your cafe!" I shouted with my still unbroken voice.

He looked at me once more and called over another guy. "Mars, Mars," he shouted. "Meet our new dishwasher. You've been promoted." At that, he burst out laughing. His laugh was so contagious that, reluctantly, we laughed along with him.

Mars greeted me and took me to show me the kitchen, asking when I could start. I thought it was a silly question and replied:

"Right now."

Mars looked at me, smiled, and started explaining how everything worked.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. Just five minutes ago, I was ready to give up.

Yes, some might have thought it was a cheap diner, but to me, it felt like home.

There, I could hide from the dragons chasing my kingdom. My demons disappeared, and I could be alone with my thoughts.

There, I found family, care, warmth, and peace—things I had longed for.

And my goal was achieved. That's how I earned my first money. That's how I became something more.

And that was my first victory over my own demons.