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The end of the year always brings that strange moment when I sit in a quiet room, the kids already asleep, and the only things I hear are the crackling of the fireplace and the soft creak of an old rocking chair in the wooden attic. And then, while the shadows move across the walls, all the stains of the year start rising to the surface — the big ones, the small ones, the ones I try to forget and the ones that follow me faithfully. Slowly they line up next to each other and create some invisible map of my life.
So, one of this year’s stains — the day I forgot to pick up my child from choir practice. I was exhausted, sleep-deprived, drained from work and worries, and he waited fifteen extra minutes for me, while his teacher comforted him, saying his dad would surely come. A stain that pricks me every time I remember it, because I know I could have done better. Then there’s the stain of buying my aunt only one perfume for her birthday — maybe a small thing to others, but I know she deserved more, because she gave me more warmth and kindness throughout my life than I ever paid back. And the old stain from my teenage years, when I got so drunk at a birthday party that my godfather had to drag me home. It’s not even worth retelling anymore, but it still sticks to my memory like old glue.
There’s also the stain from the time I won first place in a mountain running race around Avala. I gave a TV interview and said honestly that it shouldn’t always be people from big cities and big clubs who win first places by default. And the negative comments I received afterwards came precisely from those townspeople I had talked about. Even now, when I remember it, it leaves a faint trace — because I only wanted to speak the truth, and truth always has a price.
And while the fire crackles and the night slowly settles over the roof, the deeper stains begin to surface — the old life stains, the ones that stick to the soul. The stain of being late for work and leaving others waiting because of my own irresponsibility. The stain of buying something completely wrong, knowing that rushing never leads to the right choice. The stain of hitting a friend in a moment of anger — a foolish impulse that still burns. The stain of shouting at a former friend at work because I was jealous and suspected he had been with my wife — a wound that spoke far more about me than about anyone else.
The stain of turning my head away from a homeless man asking for help, acting like I didn’t see him. The stain of forgetting my wedding anniversary and then listening to the heavy silence that follows. The stain of saying harsh words to my late mother more than once — and now that she’s gone, that burns more painfully than anything. The stain toward my father, who worked construction so I could study without worry, while I sometimes behaved as if that sacrifice was normal, as if it came without cost. The stain of ignoring my own health, skipping doctors, and now carrying the consequences in my weakened immunity. The stain of not celebrating with my friends when my son was born — not because I didn’t want to, but because I was stubborn and afraid of spending money. A stupidity of a man who thinks life has a rewind button.
And among all those stains, I know there are darker ones in the world — crimes, theft, the seven deadly sins that leave marks you can’t wash off. But those stains were never mine, and never belonged to my family or the people who raised me. As someone who works in education, I was taught not to harm anyone — not by word, not by deed — and at least there, one part of me remains clean.
And so, as the year slowly closes like a book, I gather all these stains — the fresh ones of this year, and the old ones from childhood and youth — and I make my own secret balance sheet. Not to punish myself, but to understand. To make sure that in the next year, there are at least a few fewer stains, or if it were possible — to go back in time and erase some of the old ones. I know I can’t. But I can be more careful, softer, more grateful. And hope that next year brings fewer stains, and more bright spots.
Because maybe that’s how we grow.
Stain by stain, until we become human.