THE BURDEN OF CHILDHOOD

Childhood is often painted as a time of innocence, of carefree days spent beneath endless skies, of laughter untainted by the weight of the world, but the truth is that childhood is not the same for all, for some are born into comfort, shielded from the harsher truths of existence, while others are thrust into reality before they can even understand what it means to dream, their hands learning to work before they learn to play, their eyes seeing too much, too soon.

In a house where wealth was not spoken of but simply understood, where servants ensured that not a single moment of discomfort ever touched the boy who bore his father's name, childhood was not about discovery but preparation, not about freedom but responsibility, for the son of a powerful man was not merely a child—he was an investment, a future, a symbol of the family's continued dominance. His days were filled with lessons beyond his years, taught not through patience but through expectation, his hands learning to hold a pen before they could grasp the meaning of the words he was forced to write, his mind absorbing knowledge not for curiosity but for necessity, for in this world, ignorance was not an option, weakness was not tolerated, and mistakes were not lessons—they were failures. And so, while other children played, he sat in grand halls listening to the conversations of men who spoke in numbers and power, learning that life was not measured in moments of joy but in the accumulation of wealth, that respect was not given but taken, that love was secondary to legacy.

But in the dim corners of a different world, where laughter came not from abundance but from making do with what little was given, another boy was learning his own lessons, not in grand halls but in the streets that became both his playground and his battlefield. There were no tutors to guide him, no inherited wealth to secure his future—only his mother's tired voice urging him to be careful, to be strong, to survive, because in a world that did not care for the struggles of the poor, childhood was a privilege he could not afford. His education came not from books but from experience, from the sting of scraped knees against the pavement, from the burn of hunger that taught him patience, from the sight of his mother coming home exhausted yet still smiling, still fighting, showing him that resilience was not a choice but a necessity. He learned the value of a single coin, the weight of responsibility far beyond his age, the unspoken truth that if he did not fight for himself, no one else would.

Two childhoods, lived in different worlds, shaped by different hands, burdened by different expectations—one raised to lead, the other raised to endure.

They did not know each other, would not even hear of one another for years to come, but their fates, though seemingly distant, had already begun their slow, inevitable collision.

And though neither could see it yet, though neither could possibly understand how the universe weaves its stories in ways that cannot be predicted or controlled, one truth remained constant between them.

They were both running toward a future neither could escape.