When I was between seven and thirteen years old, life felt like a playground. Every afternoon around three or four, I would rush outside to play football with my friends. We had no stress, no worries—just the excitement of shouting, Tomorrow our team will win!
By five o'clock, tired and sweaty, I would finally drag myself home. I'd wash my hands and legs quickly, though never as carefully as Mom wanted.
"Did you wash properly?" she would ask, raising her eyebrows.
"Yes, Mom, I did!" I'd reply, but she still came closer to check.
"Hmm… good boy," she said at last.
"Mom, I'm hungry," I'd whine. "Can you make me something?"
"Alright," she answered with a gentle smile. "Wait a little—I'll bring you some snacks and milk."
Those years between seven and thirteen were golden. I didn't know then how precious those small moments were—football with friends, evenings at home, and my mother's father love, sunday with tv ....