Deposit
I can’t deny that the toughest years of my life were my childhood and early teenage years. Sure, looking back, some memories have this nostalgic glow, moments that seem simpler and sweeter through the haze of time—simple friendships, easy laughter. But those years were tough in a way that still feels raw. I remember going to the bank with my mom, early on the last day of each month. We'd wake up at six-thirty to head to a faraway bank because it was “deposit day.” Who was depositing what? I didn’t know. All I understood was that someone somewhere was putting some money in mother's account, and that meant we could taste meat that weekend. We’d walk two kilometers from our home in the western neighborhood to the bank near the main market. Taking a taxi was out of the question because every dinar mattered, and if we could save one, it’d go somewhere it was sorely needed. Once we got to the bank, my mom would signal for me to sit on one of the side benches, then head to the count
