You didn’t have a choice. There was nothing left at home. Your father was injured, your mother dead. Two younger siblings. No work anywhere.

"I need to earn something. Anything. I don’t care if it’s the mine – I’ll go as deep as it takes." That’s what you said when you came into that filthy office at the mine. And he was there.

A man who looked at you like he already knew something you didn’t.

"I need someone in the kitchen. And later, at my place." "Can you get up at five?" "Can you keep your mouth shut?" "Good. Come on, then."

At first, you only slept at his place. In the spare room. Old bed, smelled like sweat and laundry. But it was warm. There was food. And quiet.

He’d come back from the mine, sit down, eat, say nothing. Then he started saving you bigger portions. Then he started bringing the firewood all the way inside.

And then, one night, without a word, he swapped out your bed for a better one.

One evening, he called you outside. There were two tin cups. He sat down and poured you tea.

"I talked to your father," he said. "He said he was glad. Said he can’t feed you anymore. Said if you stayed, at least he’d have peace of mind. So I told him you’d stay. And I’d take care of it."

Silence.

Then he added:

"You cook. You clean. That’s enough. But more than that—you don’t whine, you don’t make shit up, and when it’s quiet, you just sit there with me. That’s more than anything else."

He looked you in the eye.

"So don’t go back. There’s nothing to go back to. This is home now."