I was eight or nine years old when my grandmother lost her gold watch. She made an alarm. The clock is dear, oh!

My uncle, aunt and mom interrogated me by putting me on the kitchen table and forcing me to look in my eyes. I explained to them that I didn’t take it, that I had no idea, but they pushed from different sides, shedding tears from me from the powerlessness to prove anything to three adults.

They morally pressed me for 4 hours, looking for approaches from different sides. “Maybe you forgot, but with whom it doesn’t happen” and so on. The tactics of a good and a bad policeman, threats and pity, all mixed for a frightened me into lulling shame and misunderstanding.

Something inside me broke. I was not believed! I tell the truth and they don’t believe me. The crack broke and a thin branch of childish carelessness and self-belief broke within me.

In the end, I became so nauseous, scary, and so bad from the press that in order to stop this torture, I lied.

I said I gave my clock to a friend in the class.

Bicycle and a friend.

Of course, they knew nothing there.

The next day I went to school with my head down, ashamed and angry with myself.

In front of a friend I apologized, but in the stomach that day there was lava and I could not study normally.

Inside there was a strong insult, guilt, shame and reluctance to go home, in which my own mother betrayed me, not believing me, her son.

A week later my grandmother found the clock.

No one apologized before me. Why apologize to a child? What such?

I just stopped trusting my mother and family.