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.
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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.
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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.