Back in the present reality, just after my father’s funeral, one realization slowly settled into me.
I would not be going to my uncle’s house this time.
There was money now.
Enough to sustain us even if my mother chose not to work immediately. No need to relocate me like fragile cargo. No need to insert me into a house where every bowl of rice felt audited.
On paper, this was good news.
But life is rarely that simple.
If I did not go to my uncle’s house, then I would not attend the rural school near his neighborhood.
And that school, unexpectedly, carried some of the warmest memories of my childhood.
And some of my sharpest regrets.
The school was on the edge of town.
Not quite countryside farmland, but close enough that the air felt different.
Less exhaust.
More sunlight.
I was unmistakably a city boy.
You can tell when someone grew up around traffic lights and tuition centers. I walked faster. Spoke slightly differently. Even my uniform somehow looked more structured.
Academically, I was overqualified.
Within the first week, I topped every small test they gave.
The headmaster called me into his office.
He folded his hands and said, with genuine puzzlement, “Why are you here?”
I gave the rehearsed answer about family relocation.
He nodded and made an exception for me to join the top class immediately.
Even that so called top class felt manageable.
Not because they were foolish.
They just had not been trained to compete the way city schools trained us.
But academics were not the point of that place.
What shocked me was something else entirely.
They were kind.
Not strategically kind.
Not networking kind.
Just kind.
One afternoon, during recess, a boy asked me, “You okay or not?”
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I blinked. “Why?”
“You look like thinking of something heavy every day.”
I laughed awkwardly. “You can see that ah?”
He shrugged. “Very obvious.”
Another classmate added, “If got problem, you tell us. We help.”
Help how, I had no idea.
But the offer was sincere.
That sincerity stunned me more than any academic challenge.
There was one particular boy who took kindness to absurd levels.
One day at the canteen, I stared at the snacks behind the glass display.
He noticed.
“You want that?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “But I no money today.”
He immediately pulled out one dollar and handed it to me.
“Take.”
I hesitated. “Tomorrow I return.”
He waved his hand. “No need.”
The next day, same thing happened.
And the next.
I finally asked him, “Why you keep giving me money?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“You say you no money. So I give lor.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
No contract.
No expectation.
Just cause and effect.
Eventually, the news reached my uncle’s wife.
She confronted me one evening.
“Why you keep taking people’s money?”
I stammered. “He give me.”
“Did we not feed you well at home? Why you do this kind of thing?”
The implication stung.
As if I were begging.
As if kindness received was shameful.
I stopped accepting the dollar after that.
But I never forgot it.
And then there was Connie.
Every year, without fail, I had a private tradition.
Scan the class.
Identify the prettiest girl.
Completely unscientific.
Highly subjective.
Connie won.
She had this effortless brightness. Not just appearance, but the way she reacted to things. Quick laughter. Sharp comebacks.
The class had a rotating seating system. Every week, seats shifted.
I tracked it like a chessboard.
Eventually, mathematically, I would land beside her.
When the week arrived and I saw my name next to hers on the chart, I nearly celebrated out loud.
She sat down and glanced at me.
“You very happy for what?”
“No ah,” I replied too quickly.
She narrowed her eyes. “Very suspicious.”
Our friendship began with chaos.
One day, she accidentally scribbled across my notebook while turning around too fast.
There was a jagged blue line cutting across my homework.
“Eh,” I protested. “You draw modern art on my work.”
“Sorry,” she said, but she was laughing.
In childish retaliation, I scribbled a small line on hers.
She gasped dramatically. “You dare.”
Then she scribbled back.
I escalated.
She escalated further.
Within minutes, both our homework pages looked like abstract paintings.
When we submitted them, the teacher stared in disbelief.
“What is this?”
Silence.
The teacher flipped through the pages again.
“Are you two practicing for art competition?”
We tried to explain.
It sounded worse out loud.
Both of us were punished.
Standing outside class.
Side by side.
I whispered, “Worth it or not?”
She grinned. “Worth.”
We laughed the entire time.
That was the thing about Connie.
Even punishment felt lighter beside her.
There was potential there.
Not dramatic love story potential.
But something.
A friendship that could have grown.
Maybe more.
Maybe not.
I will never know.
Because after four months, everything shifted again.
My mother, alarmed by my constant complaints about my uncle’s house, abandoned her original plan.
She fetched me back to the city.
Monica arranged a temporary place for us to stay while my mother searched for part time work.
When she told me we were leaving, I surprised myself.
I felt sad.
Not relieved.
Not excited.
Sad.
“I don’t really want to go,” I admitted quietly.
My mother looked tired but firm. “It’s better for you.”
Better is another heavy word children don’t get to negotiate.
On my last day at the rural school, my classmates said, “Come back visit.”
I nodded.
I never did.
And my biggest mistake?
I did not take Connie’s number.
What was I thinking?
Perhaps I assumed we had more time.
Perhaps I did not understand how permanent goodbyes could be.
Life has a cruel habit of removing something right when you begin to appreciate it.
Now, in this second life, I will never attend that school.
Never receive that daily one dollar.
Never stand outside class laughing beside Connie over vandalized homework.
That branch is gone.
And strangely, I miss it.
Life goes on.
But some parallel versions of happiness quietly close forever.