I was a good kid. The kind who gave up his seat for the elderly on the bus. The one who picked up trash others stepped over, and bowed a little too deeply because he meant it.
I liked helping people. It made me feel real. Valuable. In a world that often ignored me, kindness was how I carved out space.
But no one remembers the kind kid. They remember the one with money.
That lesson came early.
In elementary school, I brought lunch in an old plastic container. The label from last week’s kimchi still clung to the side, the smell lingering no matter how tightly my mom taped the lid.
“What is THAT?” a boy sneered. “Smells like garbage.”
The other kids laughed. No one asked me to sit with them that day.
I told my mom that night. She just smiled gently. “It’s okay. They’re just kids.” The next day, she gave me the same container—clean, but still with that stubborn label.
I didn’t complain. But I never took it out again.
I started noticing more. The shiny cartoon pencil cases other kids had, while mine was a faded tin box. Their backpacks zipped smoothly. Their shoes didn’t squeak.
My parents never said we were poor. They just said, “We have enough.”
But what does a child know about “enough”? All I knew was what we lacked. What others didn’t.
And worse than not having… was being seen.
I hated when people noticed. The way adults looked at my father counting coins. The way shopkeepers smiled at my mother with pity. The way teachers looked surprised when I got top marks.
Like kindness and poverty couldn’t exist in the same person.
But the moment that changed me—the moment that planted the seed—happened at church.
We were devout. Rain, snow, typhoon—it didn’t matter. We never missed a Sunday. My mother sang hymns with tears in her eyes. My father tithed ten percent of everything he earned. Always.
One Sunday, my stomach growled as the pastor spoke about joyful giving. The offering basket came around.
My father pulled out a crisp bill. My mother smiled softly. I watched the money disappear into velvet.
Later, I asked if we could stop by the convenience store. I wanted a Choco Pie. Just one.
My mom hesitated. “Not today. Next time, okay?”
I nodded. But something cracked.
God got His ten percent. I got promises.
That night, I didn’t cry from hunger. I lay awake, asking: Why do we give so much away, when we have so little?
Why did no one care, even when we did everything right?
And quietly, dangerously, I began to believe: Maybe goodness isn’t enough. Maybe the world doesn’t reward kindness—it laughs at it.
And so I changed. Softly.
I still smiled. Still helped. Still bowed.
But behind every gesture, a whisper grew louder: “Get out. Get rich. Come back and show them.”
By my teens, I was obsessed. Not with luxury. Not with fame. With control.
I wanted to walk into any store and never check the price. I wanted my parents to never count change again. I wanted to protect them with more than just prayers.
So I studied like survival depended on it—because it did. Every perfect grade was a weapon. Every award, armor. Every success, a step away from shame.
I didn’t want to be good. I wanted to be untouchable.
When I became a pharmacist, it felt like I had won.
I had money. I had respect. People listened when I spoke.
But deep inside... I was still that boy with the smelly lunchbox. Still the boy who watched his mother walk past the Choco Pies.
I thought money would silence him. But instead, it gave him a microphone.
Because now, I had what I always wanted. And it still wasn’t enough.
I didn’t want more. I needed too much.
I wasn’t chasing wealth. I was chasing worth.
And that… is how it began.
That’s how I started down the road that would later ruin me.
Not because I was greedy. But because I was broken.
And no one ever taught me how to heal.