For most of my childhood, I believed we were poor.
Not the kind of poor you see in headlines—but the quiet, everyday kind. The kind where wallpaper peels at the corners, heaters barely keep up in winter, and every purchase feels like a decision that matters too much.
I lived with my grandfather, Bram, after my parents passed away when I was six. While other relatives debated what to do with me, he didn’t hesitate. He took me in, despite his age, his limitations, and a life that already seemed set in its ways.
He became everything—guardian, provider, and the steady presence that held my world together.
But growing up with him wasn’t easy.
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