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When I was first born, I was loved by my whole village. I mean, usually the streets of the Renatus were often hectic, but, the day I was born was it was very peaceful. It was a extremely small village containing only 6 people, including my parents and siblings. I had a brother and a sister (they were twins). Our family was most likely the most wealthy in that village. 

About five years later, my family was still living in a two-story cottage. We still had very much money, and we were all very happy.

Two weeks after, my brother and sister both had to move out and find jobs for themselves. They didn't seem very excited to move, but, at some point, they would have to.

Three years later, my parents passed. Some people in the village offered a home, but I politely denied. So, I was living in my family's house alone. 

Once I was thirteen, I got a job as a child farmer. I would harvest carrots and potatoes for the people of my village. I had much money. I could afford nice clothing and food. I was very grateful since I knew that there were people that had nothing and I had so much. 

I had turned eighteen in a snap. I eventually moved out and got a two-storied house all to myself. I didn't need the room - but I accepted it. Once I moved and got settled, I got a job as a baker. I got a lot of money, and soon got carried away since I had too much money. I would donate to the poor everyday.

In time, I was again poor. I didn't see it coming, but it came. I'd guess I got too carried away helping the poor. Though, I didn't feel as bad as I suspected I would. I mean, I helped too much. Is that even bad?

So I turned 20 and was still very poor. I got kicked out of my house and I had gotten fired from my job because my boss didn't believe in giving to the poor. So, I'm currently traveling and I'm terrified of how many possibilities there are for me. But, at the same time, I'm stoked.