School love Story: The First Lesson of Growing Up
He was a fellow villager of mine. Back then, he was notorious throughout the school as a troublemaker. His father ran a bathhouse near the school, though calling him a boss was a stretch since he had to do all the work himself as a bath attendant.
The bathhouse was a commercial establishment, so utility bills were charged at industrial rates. To cut costs, his father had a large boiler custom-made and sold off the electric heating equipment, switching everything to coal-fired. But as coal prices soared, the profits after necessary expenses each month dwindled to almost nothing.
On weekends, I often took a towel and went to his family’s bathhouse. During the week, everyone was too busy for things like shopping or bathing, so all such activities were crammed into the weekends. By two in the afternoon, the bathhouse was packed with people.
This was the busiest time for his parents. With so many customers, they had to start preparations at 4 AM—lighting the furnace, shoveling coal, cleaning the bathhouse. Sometimes they weren’t even finished when the rush of students began, one group after another, leaving no time for meals.
I used to wonder why I never saw him at the bathhouse on weekends. Later, I learned that he never bathed there. Troublemakers at school were never solitary; they formed tight-knit groups, almost like family. Among them were several wealthy kids, so he often got to enjoy the luxury of city hotel saunas.
No one could believe it when they saw the funeral wreaths at the bathhouse entrance that winter—his father had passed away. Apparently, a coal truck had failed to brake properly while unloading, and the backward force of the truck had not only knocked his father onto the coal pile but also buried him alive under the coal.
By the time the driver and his mother dug through the coal, his father was already gone, still wearing his blue canvas work clothes and anti-slip gloves for shoveling coal.
The weight of life suddenly fell entirely on his mother’s shoulders. Running a large student bathhouse was no easy task for a woman with no support. The monthly coal alone required her to shovel non-stop for days.
Overnight, he seemed to become a different person. He stopped being rebellious, stopped arguing with teachers, and stopped hanging out with his troublemaking friends. On weekdays, he was as quiet as a child suffering from depression. On weekends, he wore his father’s work clothes, put on gloves, and served the bathhouse customers with a smile.
Later, he got accepted into an ordinary college. Before he left, his mother came to see him off. This boy, who hadn’t shed a tear at his father’s death, cried his heart out at the departure gate.
In college, he not only applied for student loans but also worked part-time during his free time to send some money back home.
When he was a sophomore, I had just graduated high school. My scores weren’t great, so I called him for advice on which school to apply to.
That time, he talked a lot, mostly asking me to help take care of his mother. Before we ended the conversation, I asked him a question: “What do you think the first lesson of growing up is? Bravery, strength, or understanding?”
His answer has stayed with me to this day. He said, “The first lesson of growing up isn’t learning to stop the tears of sadness, but understanding how to use responsibility and strength to protect the ones you love most.”
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
