That night, Lazar carried his cold drinks on a tray balanced atop his head, holding tightly to the hand of his five-year-old daughter. The town square buzzed with a lively bazaar, and Lazar saw it as a chance to sell, even if customers rarely stopped.

Stopping near the crowd, he smiled warmly and called out softly,
“Cold drinks, refreshing for a warm night…”

His stomach ached from hunger, but he endured for you, who looked up at him innocently. On the stage, the lively host’s gaze landed on Lazar.

“Hey, look at that! The drink seller—his head’s a table!”

Laughter erupted as the host continued to mock him. The cameras zoomed in, displaying Lazar on the big screen. He stood frozen, his face calm but his heart aching. Why did the world treat him like this?

Your small hand squeezed his tighter. “It’s okay, Daddy. I’m here,” you whispered. Lazar forced a smile, though his soul screamed with frustration.

“Let’s go somewhere else,”

he said softly, guiding you away from the laughter that stabbed like daggers. In a quiet corner, Lazar knelt before you, his voice breaking.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, for not giving you more.”

But you wrapped your little arms around him and said with unwavering innocence,
“Daddy, I love you. You’re amazing.”

Those words gave him strength. With you by his side, he would face anything.