Part 2 - Too Soon

"The strength of self-confidence is sometimes born from the suffering of the past."

- A.Golban

Before adolescence truly began, there were two things, besides my mother's rare phone calls, that kept my soul above the longing: Cristina's letters from Germany and outings with Mariana in Timișoara.

The letters were more than just paper. They were proof that the world is bigger than our village. Cristina wrote to us about her life, about her family, about the people there, about what it was like “beyond.” Germany had become a word for me that meant possibility. Every line I read gave me the feeling that we were not stuck in one place forever, that there were roads that went beyond the fields and streets that I knew by heart.

Dad had a sixth sense. He always knew when we were going to receive a letter from her. A day or two before the envelope went into the mail, it would almost certainly say: “ We have news! Precisely from Cristina...I dreamed that I was in the army with other soldiers… ” It was a recurring dream, which he interpreted as a sign that news was coming. Supernatural or superstitious, mysterious or pure paternal instinct, such things were part of our Romanian tradition. People are religious, but to the same extent that they believe in God, they also believe in evil, in signs, in unseen things, in curses and premonitions. In our house, faith and intuition went hand in hand, and letters became confirmation that the connection was not broken, even if there was distance.

And then came Mariana. Mariana was, by her nature, of a completely different caliber from me and Cristina. She was energetic, libertine, direct. She left home almost immediately after finishing high school. She didn't want to study further, she wanted to work, have her own place, be independent and start a family. For a while she worked in Timișoara, in a factory, on the assembly line, and stayed with a host. She had taken on life without much explanation.

She usually came on weekends. She would enter the yard energetically, like a warm wind, and say to me breathlessly: "Come on, Andreea, dress nicely because we're going into town." There was no time for hesitation. It was an invitation to freedom. I would go there on occasion, hitchhiked because she didn't have a car yet, although for my father it was natural that his daughters should have a license as soon as they turned 18. For him, autonomy was a form of security, and independence was non-negotiable. The road to Timisoara tasted of freedom. The city center seemed impressive to me every time. The elegant buildings, the colors of the facades, the slightly Western air, the people more confident, the cathedral dominating the square, the hustle and bustle different from the quiet of the village. I felt like I was entering a world where things worked differently, faster, wider, more open.

I remember the first real pizza of my life perfectly. It was summer. I was sitting whit my sister on the terrace of a pizzeria in the Torontal area, close to what is now Iulius Mall. I was holding the menu in my hand and didn't know what to choose. When the waiter asked me what I wanted to drink, I froze, as if I had been asked for an answer that was far too important. Mariana ordered two glasses of cola, then looked at me with a smile and simply said: "Have the Capricciosa, it's good." That's what I did and, to this day, it remains my favorite pizza. For others it may have been something ordinary, for me it was a special moment, a highlight in a time when many things were uncertain. It was proof that life can be easy, that there are times when you don't have to prove anything, but just sit at a table, on a summer terrace, with your sister by your side and a glass of cola in front of you.

Then, slowly, things started to fall into place.

The transition from childhood to adolescence was not a clear line. There was no day when I could say that I was older. It was more like a slow constriction of the way I lived. It was as if life had been squeezed into me. Joys became smaller, desires quieter, expectations reduced to a minimum. I no longer asked for much. I no longer dreamed out loud. I had already learned that not all the things you want remain. The longing was constant. Longing for my mother, longing for my sisters, longing for simple play, without invisible responsibilities on my shoulders. I had started to keep quiet more. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I didn't want to seem weak. The longing had become something internal, almost shameful in its intensity, a state that I carried within me without being able to truly share.

I usually spent my summer holidays in Cluj-Napoca, at my maternal aunts', mostly Anica and Susana's, but also at my mother's birthplace in Crișeni. I would stay there for a few weeks, with my cousins, and that was perhaps the only place where I felt truly good during those years. It was fun, we were outside all day, playing, without pressure, without labels, without comparisons. Aunt Anica, my mother's eldest sister, may have been rough on the surface, with an iron character, but on the inside she was soft, understanding, a devoted parent. All of my mother's siblings, five in number, are kind, welcoming and loving people. We were always welcomed with open arms, no matter how much they had or how little they didn't have. There was never any feeling of lack, only concern. And even today, although there are hundreds or thousands of kilometers between us, they are by our side through thick and thin, with the same silent warmth that kept me above the longing then.

Criseni - jud. Cluj

At home, without my mother, the silence was oppressive. It wasn't the calm silence of the evening, but a heavy one that settled over us. My father did everything he could. He assumed his role without discussion or complaint, just as in his youth he had supported his four sisters, paying for their schooling, boarding school, clothes, and all their needs. For him, it was normal. That's how it had to be. He had probably been taught that way by his father, and history, in a way, was repeating itself. Only now the responsibility was me.

The middle school in Becicherecu Mic influenced my personality more than I realized at the time. The fear of teachers was real, and the fear of parents was everywhere. If you didn't come from a well-off family, you became almost invisible, equal to zero. It didn't matter how much you studied or how much effort you put in. Status mattered, your entourage mattered, "beautiful eyes" mattered. The label was put on from day one, on the unspoken but felt saying: you are poor, you will stay poor, you won't get far...

In me, and probably in many children in similar situations, a silent distrust settled, a feeling of helplessness, the thought that nothing would be chosen from me, that I couldn't, that I didn't deserve it. The idea that maybe I wasn't enough, that I couldn't achieve my dreams, that I wasn't capable of becoming someone remained alive for years, imprinted in the mind like a concrete barrier. I think the greatest pain of a child is to be evaluated before their abilities and nature are known. Today I am happy to see that most of those children have made a difference in life. Some have even become better than those who, at the time, were preferred and considered "promising". Life doesn't always follow labels that were put on too early.

The aptitude test came as a cold filter of the system. At the end of the 8th grade, you took written tests in Romanian Language and Literature and Mathematics, and the average obtained, combined with the average of the middle school years, established the hierarchy. You filled out a list of the desired high schools, and the distribution was done by computer, strictly according to the average and the available places. You didn't really choose. The system decided. That's how I ended up at the High School of Chemistry and Environmental Protection in Timișoara, a high school that bore the imprint of an industrial tradition formed during the communist period, when the city was an important center of the chemical and technical industry. Technical education prepared for stability in a planned economy, for predictable jobs, for a clear path. But we were already living in a Romania in transition, in which factories were transforming, the economy was reorganizing, and stability was becoming relative.

Our classroom looked like a laboratory, literally and figuratively: tiled tables, shelves for substances, a specific smell of chemicals that got into your clothes and your memory. The city that had been a weekend light for me had become the city of daily responsibility, the focal point of my life for the following years. I was relieved when I found out that Florina was in the same class as me. A familiar face in a new space gave me the security I needed at that time. Florina lived in the same corner of the village as me, and during high school she stayed with an older woman, two blocks away from the boarding school. I remember how much it meant to know that I was not alone in the city. I am grateful that life and destiny did not separate us and that even today we share good and bad. In our desk there were also me, Mirela from Bobda and Silva from Timișoara. Each child in the class, from the village or the city, came with a different story, a different reality, but in that laboratory we had become part of the same beginning.

In the ninth grade I was sent to boarding school. The decision was made by both parents, and for my father it was indisputable. There someone took care of me, there was organization, a schedule, control. It was, in his vision, safety. I shared a room with Mirela, my classmate, and two or three other girls. I didn't protest. I adapted, as I had already learned to do. My classmates and the teacher knew that my mother was abroad. And for the first time I felt that this no longer defined everything. I was no longer just XY's poor child, with my mother gone. I was a student in a class, I was part of a group, I was a girl trying to find her place.

I stayed in boarding school until the tenth grade, until Easter break. Of all that time, only one moment remains clearly imprinted in my memory.

One morning I woke up feeling numb. Everything and nothing hurt at the same time. It was a pain without form, without explanation. I felt like a stone, still, heavy. I stayed in my room, with the blanket pulled over my head. Mirela, my classmate, stayed next to me. I don't know who or how informed the school, but at some point I opened my eyes and saw the door slowly opening. The headteacher entered the room and asked Mirela what happened. I heard their conversation, although I didn't participate in it. Then she sat on the edge of my bed, put her hand on my cheek and asked me if I was okay. I don't remember the exact words, but I remember the warmth in her voice and her gaze. Her eyes were not judgmental. They weren't reproachful. Maybe she understood more than I was saying. She let me stay in my room, to take the time I needed. Later, she sent the school nurse, Beatrice, to see me and write me a note explaining my absence. We secretly called the nurse “Ugly Betty ,” after a soap opera from that time, because she looked like the actress. Today, I look back on that episode with more maturity and understand that, beyond the teenage jokes, it was a moment when I wasn’t left alone.

My relationship with my father deepened during those years. He became my pillar. He had become both my mother and my father. When money came from my mother, we would go to the bazaar together to buy clothes and supplies, from pens and notebooks to jeans and even underwear. I was never ashamed to go shopping with him arm in arm. On the contrary, it was a gesture that made me feel protected. My father was a fine man, always clean, well-groomed, elegant. At the schools in Biled, where he worked as a security guard, he was more respected by the students than the principals. He had a quiet dignity, a presence that was not imposing through his position, but through his character.

Then I understood that I had to fight. Not just for myself, but to not disappoint those around me. The desire not to make mistakes, not to embarrass myself, to prove that I could become a pattern that accompanied me into adulthood. For a long time I thought that this was my strength, without realizing that it was also my burden.

It was only later that I realized that the struggle to prove something to others had indeed strengthened me, but the true liberation came when I started fighting for myself. Not out of fear, not out of obligation, not out of a desire for validation, but out of conviction.

Yes, I matured too quickly. I became more responsible, stronger, more independent than my age would have required. I made a silent promise to myself: to show everyone that I have value. But today I know that value does not lie in what others think of you, but in what you choose to see and believe about yourself.

And the moment you stop fighting for others and start fighting for yourself, doors open for you that once seemed walled up, with no access, no way out. The walls don't disappear, but you learn that there are also doors that you didn't notice before.

Hats off to everyone who achieved this, sooner or later, and who ended up exactly where they needed to be.