My father was born in Alacosta to a single mother. She was only eighteen when he was conceived. Her family, deeply religious, did not take the news well. Two parents and five siblings—ashamed and furious—turned on her. Her father disowned her on the spot, threw her out of the house like garbage, and warned the rest of the family to cut ties, as if she were some infection that might spread disappointment
Before that, she had told her boyfriend, the supposed father, about the pregnancy. He denied it and cut her off completely. She was alone—no family, no friends, no one. The months that followed were brutal. She did what she could to survive: begging, picking up scraps of work where she could, cleaning houses, washing clothes, carrying crates for vendors in the market.
After scraping together what little she managed to save, she rented a single-room space in the slums of Alacosta. It had no proper windows, and the walls were barely holding together—but it was hers. And it was there that she gave birth to my father, Samuel. Things didn't get easier after that; if anything, they got harder. But somehow, they survived. As Samuel got older, he started working too—anything that could help: washing cars, delivering mail, shoveling snow. When winter came, his hands raw and cracked from the cold, he made next to nothing, but even a few coins meant one more meal, one more night with a little less hunger.
It was just the two of them—him and his mother against the world. That was their rhythm, their reality. Some days they ate enough to stretch into the next; other nights, they went to bed with nothing but water and silence. But Samuel never complained. This was the only life he had ever known: no birthdays, no Christmas, no holidays, no celebrations—just survival. Time passed. By the time he was ten or eleven, he'd already seen more of life's sharp edges than most adults. He'd become part of a ragtag group of kids from the neighborhood—other slum rats, as he called them. There were five of them in total, including him. They played together, fought together, survived together. Most of them were a little older, maybe thirteen or fourteen—not quite boys, not yet men—too young for the things they were already doing. Out of all of them, the one Samuel was closest to was a kid named Tomas. They had that kind of bond that felt like it had been earned, not given. Both of them understood the silence of hunger, the sting of rejection, the sound of a house with no laughter. They were brothers in everything but blood
Unlike my father Samuel, Tomas still had a father in the picture—though barely. The man was a deadbeat drunk who spent most days in a stupor and the rest blaming the world for his failures. Their living conditions were slightly better than Samuel's, but not by much. A leaking roof and half a loaf of bread still beat an empty room and silence. The group of kids Samuel ran with—those slum-bred survivors—were neck-deep in all kinds of street vices: stealing, pickpocketing, running errands for shady men in darker corners. Eventually, they graduated to selling drugs—not because they wanted to, but because options were limited, and hunger doesn't believe in morality. There was one kid in the group who was a little older, maybe sixteen or seventeen. He carried himself like someone who'd already seen his future and accepted it. I can't remember his name exactly, but my father always called him Ringo. Ringo was connected—part of a local gang that ran operations through the neighborhood. He was the one who introduced Samuel and the others to the drug game. Apparently, the dealers liked using kids to move product—less suspicion, less heat from the cops, and kids don't snitch, either out of fear or loyalty. At first, Samuel and the rest were hesitant. It was one thing to swipe a wallet; another to carry something that could get you killed or caged. But Ringo knew how to talk. He showed them the money he was making—flashy clothes, full meals—and it worked. He'd collect the drugs, break the stash into smaller packages, and hand them out to the younger boys for delivery. Once the drop was made, they'd return to him with the money, and he'd toss them whatever crumbs he felt like—a small cut, just enough to keep them hooked. Samuel received two hundred ballands for his first successful delivery—two hundred. It was more money than he'd ever held in his life. Seven months of back-breaking work couldn't have earned him that much, and here it was, handed to him after a single errand. He didn't think about what he was carrying; he didn't want to think about it. All he saw was a number that translated into survival. That night, he walked home with food—real food. He bought pastries from a bakery he'd only ever stared at through glass: smoked meat, soft bread, even something sweet. He wasn't sure what it was, but it tasted like a dream. When he got home, his mother's eyes widened—shock, worry. "Where did you get all this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. He lied. Said someone in the market had taken pity on him, said he'd helped carry crates and they'd paid him for the effort. She didn't believe him—not really—but she didn't push. Maybe she was just too tired. Maybe she wanted to believe the lie. That night, they ate like royalty. They laughed. They saved leftovers for the next day. They didn't finish everything, not because they were being careful, but because for the first time ever, they were full. And that night, for the first time in his young life, Samuel slept with a full stomach. And so it began. Ringo supplied the drugs. The boys moved the weight. The more successful deliveries they made, the more confident they became. Each one emboldened them. Samuel's life began to change in ways he never thought possible.
The money was steady—sometimes generous—and for the first time, the hunger in his belly wasn't gnawing at him every second of the day. His once skinny, malnourished frame began to fill out. His cheeks no longer looked hollow, and there was color in his skin again. He was actually a good-looking boy, but poverty had kept it buried—rags for clothes, eyes that didn't dare dream. Now he walked with a bit more presence, a bit more pride. Their tiny room started to transform too. They bought a few second-hand pieces of furniture: a table that didn't wobble, two chairs with matching cushions. His mother even began to look different. Her clothes were no longer threadbare; her back stood a little straighter. The first time he brought money home, she asked where it came from. He lied. But over time, she stopped asking. Maybe she didn't want to know. Maybe she already did. She just prayed and hoped. And Samuel—Samuel kept providing. The money was intoxicating, addictive. The boys craved it like alcoholics chasing their next fix. And so far, luck had been on their side: no cops, no rival gangs, no close calls. What was there to be afraid of? By now, Samuel and the others had made over a dozen deliveries. He and Tomas, his closest friend, had turned it into a kind of game—who could sell the most, who could make the most drops in a day. They kept score like it was a sport: bragging rights, laughter in the alleyways, fist bumps after every successful run. Samuel had quit all his side hustles—no more car washes, no more odd jobs. He was a full-time dealer now. Almost all the money he made went straight to his mother. He only kept a small cut for himself, enough for snacks and little treats here and there. She used some of it to buy her own sewing machine and started working as a seamstress, making clothes for neighbors and shopkeepers. Her hands were always busy, but her eyes—her eyes had begun to shine. Her smiles no longer felt like temporary disguises for pain. They were real now, and Samuel could see it. Finally, they could breathe. Finally, they could eat without rationing. Finally, she wasn't crying behind a closed door when she thought he couldn't hear. But you know what they say—wherever there is happiness, tragedy is always lurking just around the corner