The first memory I carry of my life is not of toys or laughter, but of a morning when my grandfather took me to school. I was only a child, small enough to be frightened by the unknown but curious enough to keep walking. That day, he enrolled me so I could begin baby class. I can still see him clearly, standing by the roadside at the edge of the cliff that led down to the school path. His arm waved high above his head as he called out,

“Go on, boy! Don’t be afraid. The classroom is waiting for you.”

His voice was steady, warm, carrying a weight of love and authority. I remember looking back, half-tempted to run into his arms, but he just smiled, urging me forward. That was the first time I realized life was made of moments when people you love must let you walk alone.

But before I tell you about that day, you should know how I came to be in my grandfather’s care.

I was born in Essen, a busy town full of noise and hurried footsteps. My earliest days were wrapped in the gentle arms of my mother. She cared for me with all she had until I was about one and a half years old. But life in Essen was not kind to her. My father was still studying at the university, drowning in books and lectures, while my mother worked long hours to keep us afloat. The house was full of exhaustion and empty spaces, and I was a child who needed more than either of them could give.

At one point, she tried to leave me with a nanny. It might have worked, but fate has a way of revealing the truth. One evening, my mother returned home earlier than expected. She opened the door, only to find me alone, crying in the silence of the house. The nanny was nowhere to be found. That sight broke her heart. From that moment on, she decided she would never gamble with my safety again.

Her choice was heavy, but necessary—she took me to live with her parents in the village of Cochem, nestled in the green folds of West Germany. My grandfather himself had asked for it, insisting that I would not grow well in the chaos of Essen.

I can still remember the bus ride. My mother sat with me on her lap, her tears falling quietly as the engine hummed beneath us. She tried to hide her sorrow, but a child feels what words cannot say. I clung to her dress, refusing to let go.

“Don’t cry, Mama,” I whispered, though my own eyes were wet.

But when we reached the village and it was time for her to leave, my small hands refused to release her. I cried so hard that my chest hurt. My grandfather placed a firm hand on her shoulder and said,

“Don’t worry about him. I’ll take good care of the boy. Just focus on your work and build the life you must.”

His words were strong, almost commanding, but behind them was a promise—a shield of love he was ready to raise for me. My mother kissed my forehead one last time, her lips trembling, and then she walked away. The sight of her back disappearing remains carved into my heart.

After that, she visited every weekend. Each Saturday, I would see her rushing down the village road, her face lighting up at the sight of me. She loved me fiercely, enough to make the long trip just to hold me for a few hours.

But children forget faster than we wish. Time, distance, and the arms of my grandparents began to rewrite my heart. Slowly, I stopped calling her “Mama.” The day it happened is burned into me.

She walked into the house, smiling as always, and I, without thinking, said,

“Ella, you came back again?”

Her smile froze. Shock painted her face. She knelt down, holding my shoulders as if she could shake the word back into me.

“It’s me, my son,” she said softly, her voice breaking. “You should call me Mom.”

But I only blinked at her, half-confused, half-distant. And then, with the careless cruelty of a child, I whispered words that would cut her deeper than any knife:

“Don’t come here again.”

Her eyes filled instantly, spilling over with tears. “Karl, my son, don’t say that,” she pleaded, clutching me close. But I pushed away, too young to understand the pain I had dealt her, too innocent to realize how a single sentence can wound a mother’s soul.

That day, she wept, and without knowing i began the long journey of forgetting the one who had given me life...

As time passed, my mother grew used to the way I treated her. I no longer called her “Mom.” Instead, I used her real name. It was not because I stopped loving her, but because, little by little, she felt less familiar to me. The truth was, I had grown closer to my grandmother, who carried me everywhere she went.

She would hold me proudly and tell the villagers,

“Look at my handsome grandson!”

I became her shadow, her favorite, the little boy she spoiled with love and care. My mother’s visits became less frequent—no longer every weekend, but once a month. And so, the bond between us faded, replaced by the daily presence of my grandparents.

My grandparents’ life was simple. They kept cows and cattle that my grandmother tended to every day, while my grandfather was a carpenter. He was known and respected in the whole village, loved for his kindness but feared for his strictness. And I, more than anyone, knew the weight of his discipline.

One rainy season, I learned a lesson I would never forget.

That day, school had ended early. My friend Frederick and I laughed and played with the rainwater as we splashed our way home. When I reached the house and found no one inside, I saw it as freedom. We ran around, dripping wet, shivering with cold but too excited to care. Then, suddenly, Frederick stopped. His eyes widened, and without a word, he bolted.

“Frederick! Where are you going?” I shouted after him.

Before I could get an answer, a voice thundered behind me—deep and terrifying.

“Why are you playing with rainwater?”

I froze. My grandfather stood there, his eyes fixed on me. I shivered, not only from the cold but from fear. He grabbed my arm and marched me to the backyard. There, on the lawn, sat a small rock. Without a word, he stripped off my soaked clothes and bathed me with icy cold water from the basin.

“Grandpa, forgive me! I won’t repeat it again!” I cried out, my teeth chattering.

“You must learn,” he said firmly. “Finish your homework after this.”

The water was freezing, each splash cutting into me like knives, but the lesson stayed carved deeper than the chill. Afterward, he handed me a cup of hot coffee.

“Take this. It will make you feel better,” he said, his voice softer now.

In that moment, I realized something I had never truly seen before: my grandfather’s strictness was love, shaped into discipline.

---

School life was not easy for me. I was shy, too quiet to make many friends. Frederick, my neighbor, was my only companion. In class, I was lazy at first. I skipped work, copied answers, and didn’t know how to add or subtract properly.

One day, our teacher asked each of us to tell a story in front of the class. When my turn came, I stood trembling before the room.

“Once upon a time there was… there was… a king who…” My voice trailed off. The words vanished. My mind went blank.

“Sit down,” the teacher said gently, and I returned to my desk, embarrassed and ashamed.

When the results came at the end of baby class, my teacher spoke with my grandfather about my progress. That evening, at home, my grandfather sat me down.

“You must learn addition and subtraction,” he said. “If you don’t, you won’t do well in the next stage.”

From that day, he taught me himself. His patience and persistence paid off—I began to understand numbers, and with it, I began to change.

---

By the time I entered Class One, I had grown more serious about school. For the first time, I ranked among the top ten students. My grandfather was pleased, praising me and urging me to aim even higher. Teachers liked me too, not for brilliance but for my quiet, respectful nature. Yet that same gentleness made me a target. Bullies picked on me often. I didn’t fight back. My grandmother had always told me, “Fighting is not a good behavior,” and I believed her.

Things grew lonelier when Frederick, my only close friend, transferred to another school where his father taught. I was left without a playmate. After classes, I stayed home with my grandmother, wandering in silence.

Then came the day I nearly destroyed everything.

“Karl! What are you doing inside there? Karl—why is there smoke in the house? No, no, no… Kaaaarl!”

Her voice was filled with terror. I had set the house on fire.

It happened so quickly—while playing with matchsticks I had taken from her. She had been busy burning old clothes, and I, in my curiosity, thought I could do the same. Flames roared where they didn’t belong, and smoke filled the air. My grandmother’s scream still echoes in my ears, the sound of shock, fear, and disbelief.

That was the day I learned that curiosity could burn more than fingers—it could burn a home.

It all happened so quickly.

While my grandmother was outside burning old clothes, I had slipped away with a box of matchsticks I had taken from her. At six years old, my curiosity was louder than my common sense. I thought I could do what she was doing—make fire, control it. But fire doesn’t listen to children. Flames roared where they didn’t belong, leaping up the curtain, and smoke filled the air in seconds.

My grandmother’s scream still echoes in my ears—the sound of shock, fear, and disbelief.

That was the day I learned that curiosity could burn more than fingers—it could burn a home.

Her face turned pale when she saw the curtain already half-consumed by flames. She rushed forward without hesitation.

“Karl, go outside, right now!”

Her voice was sharp, trembling with urgency. I froze, shivering not from cold but from fear, my small body rooted to the floor. In a burst of courage, she grabbed the burning curtain, yanked it down, and stomped the fire out with her feet until smoke rose instead of flames.

I stood there watching, thoughts racing wildly through my head.

What if the whole house had burned down? Where would we sleep? What would happen to us?

My thoughts were cut short by a sharp sting on my cheek.

Slap.

“What were you thinking, playing with fire inside the house?” she shouted, her voice shaking with both anger and relief. “Don’t you ever repeat such a stupid thing!”

Her eyes blazed almost as fiercely as the fire had, and for a moment I thought she could throw me out of the house. But then she caught sight of my tearful eyes and trembling lips. Her voice softened, though she kept scolding me with endless warnings.

What scared me most was not her anger—it was the thought of my grandfather finding out. His punishments were far worse than a slap. I remembered the last time, when he caught me playing in the rain.

Time passed, and the house finally calmed. Evening settled, the smell of smoke still lingering faintly in the air. I sat by the window in my small room, watching the sun sink behind the hills. Then I heard it—the sound of my grandfather’s truck pulling into the yard. My stomach twisted with dread.

I lay down on the bed, pretending to sleep.

“Karl… Karl, come take your dinner,” my grandmother called softly.

I hadn’t realized sleep had carried me away until her voice pulled me back. At the table, my grandfather sat smiling, his eyes warm as always.

“How are you doing, my boy?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Grandpa,” I whispered, confused by his kindness.

“Come, eat before it gets cold,” he said, chuckling as he handed me a plate.

I moved slowly, my mind racing. Why isn’t he upset? Does he not know?

We ate together, laughter filling the room as my grandparents exchanged funny stories. The tension in my chest eased. When it was time for bed, my grandfather looked at me with a mysterious smile.

“Son, I have a surprise for you.”

My eyes widened. “What is it, Grandpa?”

“You’ll see tomorrow. Now go and sleep. Good night.”

“Good night, Grandpa,” I said, still filled with curiosity.

Later that night, my grandmother came into my room. She closed the door behind her and whispered, “Don’t worry, Karl. I didn’t tell him anything. I said it was all my fault. But you must promise me one thing—don’t ever tell anybody else. This will stay between us, okay?”

“Yes, Grandma,” I said quickly.

“Good. Now sleep well,” she said with a soft smile.

It was the second time my grandparents showed me their deep love—not only with discipline, but with protection. Happiness filled me, and all the fear disappeared. I fell asleep wondering what surprise awaited me the next day.

Morning came bright and early. I found my grandfather already outside, milking the cows. I rushed to him, eager to help, but he only chuckled.

“Not yet, Karl. Just watch. When you grow older, you’ll be able to help me.”

So I sat beside him, asking endless questions while my grandmother prepared breakfast. She called us in when it was ready. We ate eggs from our own chickens, warm bread, and fresh milk. Life in the village was simple but full.

After breakfast, Grandpa asked me to join him for errands. He needed lumber for his carpentry, and I was thrilled—my mind spinning with the thought that today, I would finally see the surprise.

We drove to a small store where he left me in the truck. When he came back, he was holding two ice creams.

“Here, before it melts,” he said, handing me one.

“Thanks, Grandpa!” I said, licking it quickly, my heart glowing with simple joy.

When we reached home, he smiled and said, “Go inside, Karl. Your surprise is waiting.”

I rushed in, full of anticipation.

“Karl, my handsome baby! I missed you so much!”

My mother’s arms wrapped around me, holding me tightly. I felt the warmth of her love all over again.

But then my small hands touched her tummy, round and firm.

“Mom… why is your stomach so big?” I asked innocently.

She laughed softly, her eyes glistening. “Oh, my son. That’s your little brother.”

I froze, surprised beyond words. A brother? I didn’t understand, but I knew that everything was about to change again.