When I was a teenager, life held little meaning to me. In moments of angst (and there were plenty back then), I’d wish for things to go my way in exchange for a few years of my life.
At 13 or 14 years old, how could I have imagined what my life would be when I reached 70, 75 or 80? At that foolish age, I thought living a few years shorter would hardly mean a thing.
But now that I am with a son, a boy who is my constant source of joy and worries, I wish to have at least 110 healthy years in this world so that I can stay by his side and be his solid support throughout his life.
I wish all my teenage wishes to exchange years of my life for frivolous wants went unheard.