The young gentleman entered the room. I call him "Young Master." At his age, such success deserves recognition—though I suppose family wealth helps a lot these days. Doing something big all on your own in 2025? That's nearly impossible now.
He's an energetic character—wants everything done at once. But he has hope for the future, and I like that about him.
The day flows through endless calls, payments, taxes, calculations, managing a flood of emails, untangling an endless web of phone traffic.
Wait— I need a sip of coffee, then another. It's how I wake myself up.
In this life, my greatest pleasures are coffee and the smell of fresh grass. Of course—after you, my dear child, and that half-written alpha man who lives far, far away.
The sad days come and go, sometimes I even forget. When did I truly let you go? Was it 2005? Or maybe 2009?
That love—those years—why does the ache of your absence still burn in 2025? Where did we go wrong? What did we miss?
But right now, I'm at work. I need to stay focused. I'll cry for you later. I'll cry for myself later.
We're wrapping up another intense day. Time flies here. The pressure, the noise, the never-ending tasks—and then it's time to go home.
And once I'm home? My child is there, waiting. "Mommy, mommy, mommy!" Dinner, playtime, a little activity together, then straight to sleep.
We both wake up early—one of us for preschool, the other for another day of survival.
How is it that I've reached my 40s and still haven't managed to buy a car? What did I miss? Who did I let take too much from me?
I don't want to question anymore. But for myself—and for my child—I must break this shell.