The thought hit me as I carried the last box up to the small attic room where I was supposed to live “for a while.”
Temporarily.
Such a comforting word — when you’re trying to hide something uncomfortable.
I had planned something else.
My own place.
Coffee in the city center.
Weekend outings.
A social life.
Lunches with friends.
A shiny future powered by my marketing degree.
And here I was — in the attic of my grandfather’s old house in Boston… or … — it doesn’t really matter. Sleeping on a thin mattress that smelled of damp wood, old walls, and lessons I didn’t want to learn.
A Cup of Denial for 4.50
I walked in with my boxes and my special coffee — 6.50 in a cardboard cup. As if that overpriced drink proved that I could still afford things.
My grandfather — old Dimitar — squinted at it.
“How much did you pay for that?”
“Four euros and something.”
He took a sip of his instant coffee — thick, muddy, honest.
“Pay off your cards first, boy. These little pleasures are what put you in the red.”
Two Worlds Under One Roof
Life with my grandfather was another universe.
A television from another era. Two channels that worked only if you shook the antenna just right.
I paid for Netflix, HBO, Amazon, Voyo — at least five subscriptions.
I barely watched any of them.
“I like having options,” I said.
“More distraction, less life,” he muttered without looking up from the news.
The Burger That Cost More Than Dinner
One evening, exhausted, I ordered a burger for 12.
“A small treat,” I told myself.
When the doorbell rang, my grandfather was already there, looking at me like I’d committed a crime.
He was eating his favorite meal:
Rice “with whatever there is.”
A bit of beans.
A slice of salami.
One egg.
A spoon of lutenitsa.
Total cost: under 2.
“Well, look at the rich guy,” he said.
“Come on, Grandpa — it’s just a burger! Everything is expensive now! You had it easier!”
That’s when I made a mistake.
“Easier?”
He slowly put his fork down.
“At fifteen, I started in a factory,” he said quietly.
“Twelve-hour shifts. No contracts. No vacation. Inflation. Ration cards. Shortages.”
“My luxury was a pastry and a yogurt drink.”
He pointed at my phone.
“That thing costs a thousand euros. I have this.”
He pulled out his old flip phone. Scratched. Worn. Working.
“It makes calls. I don’t need to impress anyone.”
Then he rolled up his sleeve and showed me a faded tattoo from his army days.
“I earned this with work. Not in six interest-free installments.”
I felt my face burn.
The Sentence That Stayed
“So what — I should live like a poor man?” I snapped.
“No,” he said calmly.
“You should stop confusing comfort with progress.”
He walked to a drawer, took out a small bank booklet, and handed it to me.
Over 175,000 saved.
From pensions.
From small side jobs.
From discipline he never bragged about — but that carried him his whole life.
He looked at me the way only old people who’ve lived enough can look at you.
“Yes, I bought this house on one salary,” he said.
“But I didn’t pay for subscriptions I don’t watch.
I didn’t buy clothes I don’t need.
And I didn’t spend four euros on coffee because I was ‘tired.’”
Then he said the sentence that still echoes in my head:
“You Don’t Lack Money. You Lack Judgment.”
“You’re not poor,” he continued.
“You’re just paying monthly installments so your life looks better than it really is.”
That evening, for the first time in a long time…
I had no excuses left.