A sudden wave of guilt swelled in my heart, heavy and unshakable. My late parents’ voices echoed in my mind—pleading, begging me to change. But back then, I was unyielding, stubborn as stone, convinced that the fleeting happiness of the slum was my paradise. I ignored their warnings, drowned out their concerns.
I lived like a princess, sheltered from the harshest struggles. My mother always ensured I had beautiful dresses and shoes, treasures she bought from the local market. To me, they were luxuries, symbols of privilege, especially when my cousins—who were even poorer than us—envied me.
She pampered me, shielding me from responsibility. Household chores? Not my thing. My eldest siblings—born from my mother’s first marriage—handled everything. I was like the spoiled stepsister in a Cinderella tale, embracing indulgence and turning my back on duty.
The slum offered me an escape, a world where I felt free and untouchable. I preferred the streets over family dinners, laughter with my friends over the lessons my parents desperately tried to teach me.
But now, standing here, reflecting on the past, I feel the weight of those moments pressing down on me. The life they dreamed for me—the one filled with hope and opportunity—was not the path I had taken.
And for the first time, I wondered… did I ever truly appreciate the love they gave me?
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