I found him under a tree. He was newborn, injured, and squirming, almost on the verge of death. I brought him home, made him drink milk, and looked up everything I could about how to care for him. My parents told me I wouldn't be able to do it, that he'd just die. But I figured, even if he did, I'd give him a little more time.

It was hard, really hard, to take care of him with all my studies. I'd feed him in the morning, right when I got home from school, in the evening, and again at night. I did everything I possibly could for him.

After a few months of all that care, he really started to thrive. He became independent. When I studied, he'd stand on the table, watching my pen wobble.




That how the story of him must have been. But. He died. In the end, I couldn't give him happiness. All I gave him was suffering.