In everyone's life, some events affect life more than others. It has been confirmed that the most powerful and thus the most meaningful events; are the death of a dear member of the family, then the end of a long-term love relationship and life together, the war, and a severe illness.

My life was particularly affected by the place where my mother died. I was fifteen years old, and my younger brother was eleven. Then everything in my life completely changed. A cataclysm of biblical proportions happened in me. There will be more later.

Mother disappeared from some galloping cancer. I heard from the elders when they called what killed them just like that. We are in the same month; we discovered she was sick and buried her. Just as you turned around, quick as a blink of an eye, she disappeared from our lives.

I never saw her dead, and she had a fragile appearance during her life. Her skin has always looked sickly yellow, and she had a sad and pensive face. It was as if she was always absent, grieving for something secret and unspeakable.

I will never forget that ugly feeling of loss and that ugly autumn day when the storm blew leaves under a cloudy sky of changing colors. When the day broke, it rained like a cable all that night, and I thought that the sky was crying for my poor mother.

"One hour you are there, and the next hour you are gone." - I heard when people speak with sighs in her breath.

My reality, or what I thought it was, dissipated without a trace. Until then, I was no different from the other children, like a brainless, carefree brat. By the force of adversity, I suddenly realized that everything is just a moment wrapped in the time between life and death.

My father and mother's life together was not exactly fabulous. Even today, I remember their quarrels for an unknown reason. The father often shouted at the mother that she was a whore, so he listed all the men with whom she allegedly fornicated. That was very difficult for me to listen to, so I ran out of the house as soon as it started. I felt bad and hurt, as if those ugly words were addressed to me and not to my mother, but I never believed in their truth.

I no longer remember those names my father listed, and I never found out if my mother was a whore. And if she did, she wouldn't be different and set herself apart from many other women.

Six months after the mother's death, the father brought another woman. She didn't care about us children at all. She was of medium height with shoulder-length white-blonde hair. She had a slightly flat nose and a large mouth with full lips. When I saw her for the first time, she opened that big mouth into a plastic smile, which made me think that in front of me was not a woman but only a wicked intention. Her figure was prominent and robust, and her tongue was simple. My father tried to be excited and funny beside her, but he was just a simple chatterbox.

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Later, it turned out that the father had relations with that woman during the marriage, who blackmailed her then-husband with him.

But the father didn't have much luck with her either. Somewhere, if I remember correctly, about a year after they started living together, one morning when my father unexpectedly appeared at the house, he found his neighbor Milenko.

After that event, he no longer brought women home; most likely, he didn't even have any. He surrendered himself strongly and completely surrendered to alcohol. He succumbed to him as if in love, only to die three years later, after a daily bout of drunkenness, in his sleep from a heart attack.

During this time of drunkenness, his face had suddenly aged and darkened, and his features had become more pronounced. His nose was swollen, and the capillaries on it were broken. His irritability and irritable mood did not leave him, even during the holidays. He became restless and aimless. I thought at night how to make him give up his madness and agree to normality, but nothing came to my mind.

When he died, everyone said it was a blessed death. And you don't feel it when you die. The only thing is that it's a shame that he died so young. Some recognized happiness in misfortune. In his death, some saw the devil, and others the work of God.

While he was getting drunk during his life, I looked after my younger brother. Later, I never had a more honorable and glorious mission than that.

I turned eighteen a few months before his death, so by law, I could take over what remained of the unconsumed and unspent inheritance and thus continue my life taking care of my younger brother, who began to understand what was happening around him.

Even though I didn't know it yet, even then, life had captured me. More or less, everything became irrelevant to me. I could not feel summer, winter, or any other change of season. I didn't feel the food, whether it was salty or sweet or day or night; I didn't care about any of that. It was as if tears had frozen in my eyes and wouldn't let them out, so I couldn't look at the world anymore. I felt he could shake them off only with his eyes. And even worse was that I forgot to laugh and that some cold worse than any ice moved into my stomach, and nothing could warm it up.

My intentional or unintentional thoughts saved me in the most challenging moments of the accident. Whenever it was difficult for me, hope would appear over some imagined and mostly unfounded desire, so I entered a state similar to delirium. When the frenzy passes, difficulties pass with it and become diluted.

Later in my life, I tried many times to come to terms with a fate that was not in my favor, but I failed. I could not come to terms with the humiliations that life had in store for me. Today it seems that nothing is in my life except those attempts. It's as if I've spent my whole life in these attempts.

I hope I'm one of the few who regret having a father. I don't remember much about my mother's kisses, and most likely she didn't have time for them because of frequent arguments with my father.

I must think so in order not to allow the other possibility in which the mother had all the ancestors of her children. If I let such a thought enter me, an intractable pain would settle permanently with it. And when you've been carrying some pain inside you all your life, and you don't know how to get rid of it, it eats you alive. That's what I always think, trying to stay uneaten.

So those who were supposed to be my moral pillars left my life. Even today, were they always wrong or sound and then went bad?