What I Wish could undo

I woke up to the screams of happiness from the kids. They were all gathering in the same place, as if receiving God himself. Adults and kids were happy, so I went to see what was going on. I saw a black car, and my face immediately lit up because I knew who was inside. It was my aunt—almost like a celebrity to us who lived on the farm—and she had brought her daughter.

Every kid wanted to play with her. She was my cousin, after all. Me too—I wanted to play with her. But I never imagined that playing with her would make my life miserable. That day became one I wished had never happened—the day I can never forget, but wish I could. The disappointed faces, the angry stares, the laughing sounds, the day I felt pain and sadness for the first time.

Five years earlier, I woke up in a small house, and the first thing my parents did was pray. In our small village, being able to sleep and wake to see the next morning was reason enough to celebrate and throw a big party. We believed that seeing another day didn't make us special or more important than those who didn't have the privilege.

I didn't understand any of that at the time. Many believed in different things. Some woke and said, "Thank you, Jesus." Others started rituals for their own gods.

But there was one lesson I heard every day, as if it were part of my lifetime teachings: never have regrets. People who make bad decisions regret them later. Once you regret something, there's no going back to fix it. Even if you could, it wouldn't erase the guilt or bad feelings you caused.

This was a feeling I absolutely didn't want to experience. But I never imagined that one day my fear would become reality. It was hard to imagine knowing what it felt like to feel guilty, to want to go back in time, to wish I could forget a past mistake I would do anything to fix... but couldn't.

Living in lies means wanting to restore the image you once had of the people you love most—and would do anything for.

All the kids wanted to play. My cousin showed us games. Every child in the village knew one thing: whether their parents were religious or not, they had to be obedient and never go against them. My parents were especially proud of me. Not all kids remained obedient—some did stupid things behind their parents' backs. Secretly, in the village, there was nothing an adult could do that a kid couldn't. They could do anything, even with strict parents, as long as they didn't break the visible rules.

My cousin told us stories and showed us games she played in the city. She said a different friend came over every day. Her friends stayed overnight, played all night, and studied together at school.

I envied her. I couldn't do any of that because I had no friends—not one.

She finally said, "I know you all can't understand what it feels like to have friends or play with other people."

She believed we could never find friends. I wanted the last laugh. "What makes you think I couldn't have friends?"

She told me to accept her challenge—if I could make even two friends, I'd won. I felt angry, but I accepted.

My mom prohibited me from having friends because most kids' parents practiced traditional magic and rituals that conflicted with our Christian beliefs. My parents feared their influence. I could only talk to teachers at school. I had no friends, but I was proud—proud to be obedient.

We moved to the city, where it was lonely without friends. I was determined to make friends like my cousin.

My first day at the new school was stressful. It was depressing being the only one at a table while others sat in groups of five or more. The kids were noisy. In my classroom, some students were always first and had great grades, and they were friends with almost everyone.

In PE class, the teacher said we should pair up. I was afraid of rejection but eventually asked one of the kids without a partner, thinking we could become friends.

"Do you want to partner with me?" I extended my hand, but she looked at me, then asked her other friends—who already had partners—to make a group of three instead.

I felt embarrassed and ashamed. When the teacher asked who didn't have a partner, it was difficult to raise my hand and say it was only me. Maybe because I wasn't used to talking to anyone.

This happened multiple times. Students refused to work or play with me. I was hurt and became more alone. I hated school. Each time break came, it brought a joy I could never feel.

Eventually, I got used to being alone—until one day a student approached and asked my name. I was confused. Only teachers had ever asked before. Her name was Anna. We talked a lot. I didn't have much to say since I'd never had a friend, but she kept asking questions, and the conversation continued. We talked about hobbies and things we liked, and for me, it was a big accomplishment.

Some students wanted to be my friend, but only if I brought them money. I refused because it would hurt my pride.

Through Anna, I made more friends. Life was different. We had a little corner table by the window that we sat at every day. It felt specially made for us.

At lunchtime, we sat at the table waiting for everyone to come. We knew they'd come because this was our meeting place. This little table was where we made our lasting memories. We studied there, ate, and did everything else we wanted to do or talk about.

One Friday afternoon, as we walked home after school, it was just Anna and me. The other kids stayed for extra lessons. She told me she wanted to share a secret, but I had to promise never to tell anyone. The thought of finally sharing secrets with a friend was exciting.

The secret she wanted to tell me was that she'd gotten a bad grade on the last midterm. I immediately promised never to tell. Anna was hesitant at first, as if having second thoughts, but she finally said, "I'm a pastor's daughter."

I said, "Okay," confused because I didn't know why she was hesitant. Everyone at school already knew.

She opened her mouth again. "I go to clubs and other disgusting places you'd never think about."

I was even more confused but smiled, thinking she was joking. But Anna continued, telling me things she'd done that were considered bad. If anyone knew, she and her parents would be in serious trouble because believers wouldn't accept them as pastors.

I could already imagine believers saying the pastors couldn't even stop their own daughter from doing stupid things. As a Christian, I was shocked, but I was also happy to finally have a friend who trusted me with her secrets.

I was happy for one month, but I felt I needed to prove myself more to my cousin and show her how many friends I'd made.

It wasn't enough. I wanted more friends.

One day before school, I found Anna's old friend with whom she'd argued, who also lived near my house. Her name was Sandy. I told her I wanted to be her friend. She smiled. "Of course we can be friends."

After school, we walked home together, talking. She asked if I knew anything about Anna. She was Anna's best friend but had stopped talking to her since their argument.

I wanted to help them reconcile. "What can I do?"

"Nothing," she said.

"Why did you guys stop talking? Since you probably know what's going on with her family lately, did you leak her secret?"

I could tell by her confused expression that she didn't know what I was talking about, but I thought she was hiding her friend's secret. "You don't have to pretend. I know everything already."

"Know what?"

"About Anna going to bad places, even though her parents are religious."

Then I realized I'd made a mistake by revealing someone else's secret. I thought since they were best friends, it was normal she'd know. "Please don't tell anybody about that. This is very important to Anna and her parents."

She promised she wouldn't say anything.

The next few weeks felt like a dream. Every Friday, Sandy arrived with a tin of her grandmother's cookies—chocolate chip, still warm from the oven. Anna always got to the table first, spreading her jacket across the extra chairs to save our spots. We'd huddle together, passing notes about the cute boy in math class, complaining about homework, sharing dreams about the future. The corner table by the window became ours—a sacred space where I finally belonged. For the first time in my life, I wasn't the lonely kid. I was part of something.

Until the day I destroyed it all.

I was happy Anna and Sandy had finally made up, but when I said hello, neither answered. I assumed they didn't hear me. During lunch, I went to where we used to eat every day. Sandy looked at me and said I didn't have a place there anymore.

I was confused and asked why they were acting like that. Then Anna finally spoke to me for the first time all day. I hoped she'd take my side, but instead she asked, "Why did you reveal my secret?"

I was mortified. My face turned white. But then I remembered the only person I'd told was Sandy. I turned around. "Sandy, were you the one who told Anna I said that?"

Instead of Sandy, Anna answered. "Didn't I tell you not to tell anyone?" Then she added with a smirk, "Well... you shouldn't have told me in the first place if you promised not to tell anybody."

Everyone was looking at us. That's when I realized we were in the middle of hundreds of students. We talked lower so others wouldn't know Anna's secret.

During lunch, other kids I didn't even know started threatening me. One of the girls, who was Anna's friend, said, "From now on, you shouldn't come near. You're not our friend anymore."

I said I was sorry, but they said, "If you ever come near us again or tell anyone else about Anna's secret, I'll tell everyone that Anna was innocent—it was you who went to those bad events, then used Anna as a backup to hide your sins."

She continued, "Want to think about what will happen to you and your Christian parents if I say that to the office? Your mom won't be able to go anywhere without covering her face from embarrassment because of you."

I was devastated. The thought of embarrassing my parents filled my mind. The image of my mom and the rest of my family—who always praised me—now filled with disappointment. For a second, I couldn't think about anything else.

"Please, everything but not this."

They all looked at me and laughed. This moment was filled with regret.

I regretted the decision to make new friends before my cousin came to visit and started that challenge. I was lonely, but I wasn't sad. I had no friends, but I had no regrets then.

If I could go back in time, I would fix this mistake if I could.

I was afraid they'd go to the office and report the false accusation. Every day I came to school, I was scared. I had to check if any false rumors had circulated. I already hated school, but now I'd do anything not to be there.

I wanted to talk things over with the girls and tell them it was all a misunderstanding, but they wouldn't hear a single word. They told me if I wanted forgiveness, I should fix my mistakes—but I didn't know how to fix this.

I can't undo it because it already happened.

If only I'd listened to my mom, I wouldn't be in this situation.

I spent three more years at that school. Life was full of stress, and I couldn't concentrate, but thankfully they didn't spread false rumors about me, which I was grateful for.

My mom and I moved again, and for the first time, I was happy to move.

Even though I still don't know how to fix my mistakes, I wanted to avoid making them again. I finished middle school and started high school without a single person's number in my phone. I had only two numbers—my mom's and my dad's.

Even though the memories with friends still haunt me, I wanted to do better and focus on making my family proud instead of reviving the past. Sometimes I wish I knew how my old friends are doing, but I never ask because I want to focus on the things I can fix—not the things I can't, or the things I don't know how to fix.