I was born in a two-story wooden and adobe house. Adobe, a mixture of clay and straw, is poured into molds. The adobe bricks taken out of the molds are dried in the sun. The gaps between the wooden house's scaffolding are filled with adobe. Swallows and sparrows used to build nests in the adobe walls of the house's worn-out wooden framework. During rainy weather, our house seemed to take a breath. Raindrops would seep into the house through the aged and tired tiles. We would place copper, basins, and pots under the dripping spots. We could feel the cold breeze blowing inside. To prevent the cold from coming in, my mother would cover the doors and windows with blankets. It would somewhat cut the cold.
In the cold of winter, we would light a small duck on the stove. A pot of tarhana soup would simmer on the burning ember. My mother, father, siblings, I, and my grandfather would revolve around the burning hearth in the middle of the room. We didn't have electricity or water in our house. My mother would carry water from the nearest fountain in our neighborhood. She would carry the weight of the entire house on her shoulders. At night, she would do needlework, lace, or knitting. When I learned to stand on my feet, one day I entered our neighbor's house. I took my friend's toy truck and shovel and went to play in the sand. After playing games with them, I returned home. My mother had learned that I had taken our neighbor's toys without permission and asked where the toys were. I said that I had played with them in the sand and forgot to bring them back. My mother found the toy truck on the sand, but she couldn't find the shovel. She had given our neighbor the toy truck. Our neighbor had said, "The shovel is what matters." Upon hearing this, my mother angrily returned home and tied a rope to the wooden beams of the house. She put the noose around my neck. She hung me. My fingertips were touching the ground. When she saw that I couldn't breathe, she let me down. She asked me if I would do it again. She asked if I would take our neighbor's belongings without permission again. With every breath, I promised not to, and I cried, thinking about what I had done to my mother. With my tears, I sought my mother's mercy...
