I was born in Port of Spain, Trinidad. I came home to the house that my grandfather built on top of the hill, a house where I was welcomed by my aunt and my grandmother, my two uncles, my cousins, and my older brother.

Family.

The house was big enough to hold all of us comfortably. We picked chennet from the tree that stood strong in the front yard, a front yard we also watched the chickens move around aimlessly, their heads shifting back and forth like a broken wall clock and claws tapping the concrete.

My mother said don’t do it.

“You’re just a child.”

I heard that phrase more times than my mind can file.

“You’re throwing away your future.”

I heard that when we decided to keep our child.

No baby showers.

No gifts.

No celebrations.

My daughter was born into a world that did not want her to exist.

She’s a mistake.

That’s what my night school teacher told me. My daughter was months old by then. I’d already held her, bathed her, fed her, stared at her inside her crib as she slept.

I heard the man in front of me ask the teller, “So I still have 20 grand in my savings account?”

He looked young, mid-twenties or so, and he said it proudly. This was years ago when writing was my full-time gig but I still wasn’t saving anything. That number felt astronomical to me and me being me, hearing that number instantly sent me into jealousy mode.

How did he save that much?

What does he do?

It’s probably not all legal.

He’s younger than me and has so much more.

Weeks before I graduated university, I was offered a job. The position would put me in Manhattan full-time and pay in the range of $80,000/year. For someone fresh out of school, that’s really good money, and living in New York city made it even more alluring.

But I turned it down. Without even a second thought, I turned it down. I’d been away from my daughter for the better part of four years by then and the thought of permanently relocating to another country and not being with her wasn’t an option for me.

I’m always confused when people say they have no regrets. The definition of regret is to “feel sad, repentant or disappointed over something that has happened or been done, especially a loss or missed opportunity.”

By that definition, I’ve had plenty of regrets.

I don’t regret having my daughter, but I regret all the things I couldn’t do for her.

Not providing her a stable home till she was in high school.

All the fights she witnessed between me and her mother, especially the final one in the schoolyard. That happened in front of parents and teachers and her friends. I still think about that day.

I didn’t want to speak to anybody.

The crowdfunding campaign I set up to publish my first book had failed and failed miserably. My goal was to raise $3,000 and on the last day that people were allowed to donate, I had only raised 300.

It felt like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart till it burst. Releasing my book was a dream I had since I wrote my first book at eight years old. With the crowdfunding not working out, I couldn’t see how that dream would become real.

I’m saving to buy a house. Maybe not a house exactly, but a townhome or condo. I live in Toronto, though, and that means homes are expensive. Really expensive.

Average price for a single-family home is over $1 million. So while buying an actual house would be great, it can feel impossible, even for someone like me who believes anything I put my mind to is possible.

We’re at the cottage for my daughter’s birthday. No, it’s not my cottage. I’m not quite there yet. I rented it with another friend and it still came up to about $3,000 each for the week.