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...