I have made my own luck.
Born into a family of drunks and gamblers, growing up, I would often hear my father blame his wretched existence—his words, not mine—on either his parents or his unlucky fate.
He would come home drunk, lash out, and lecture us on how unfair it all was and that he did not deserve any of the things going wrong in his life.
My old man never acted on us physically, and he would calm down once the booze wore off. If he could, he would buy us something nice and warm to eat as a way to apologize.
There were three of us siblings, all boys. Mom left us when we were still little. I did not know where she went until I was old enough to look for her on my own. I found out she started a new family in some backwater province.
I met my half-siblings there. It was an overall nice experience—meeting my siblings.
Getting off-topic here.
The point is, we brothers had to be somewhat independent at a young age.
We would do the chores before our father got home from work, then quickly leave before he got back.
On weekends, we would look for small jobs in the market to make some coins. Maybe lend a hand here and there for some kind of compensation—preferably something we could eat.
Looking back, the responsibilities sucked, but the freedom made up for it a little.
It was not all that bad. Not a lot of good either, admittedly.
That is why, when I met my wife, Prescilla, and we started planning a family of our own, I told myself that I would do my very best for them.
Using my trade, I plied my skills in other countries where the pay was better. It was hard at first, being away from my homeland and family.
But it was necessary to provide a better life for them, especially since my wife gave birth to our son.
We named him Marcus, after my wife's departed grandfather. I did not know how small a baby's hand could be until I touched his. It felt weird, and it was all so surreal.
When I asked my father, who was there at the time, how it felt when he saw me for the first time, he smiled at me and said, "Well, you were the second one at that time, so I was less emotional then. So I thought: fuck, I gotta feed this one too."
We looked at each other and laughed. It was one of the nicer moments we have had.
After years of toiling, separated from my family, I found a place where I could work and live with them at the same time. A major milestone is what it felt like—being able to watch my son grow each passing day.
Eventually, Marcus started studying at a local school.
He quickly took to reading and writing.
Especially reading books. So much so that whenever he was not playing with other kids, he could often be found with a book in hand.
He became a big fan of fantasy novels, and once he finished reading, he would enthusiastically tell us about everything he had read in the book.
It was not long before he thought of writing his very own. He was around twelve at that time. I caught him deep into the night, scribbling away on the back pages of his math notebook.
It turns out, he wanted to keep his book a secret so he could surprise us. I let him be and promised him I would not tell his mother. I figured it was a good learning experience about the importance of getting enough sleep. I thought this was probably something he would do once and hate enough to never try again.
I did not think much of it at that time, not until I was called to the school by his literature teacher for a talk.
It was then that Marcus's teacher showed me his book and expressed her astonishment and interest in guiding him with his writing, promising to do her very best and not impede Marcus's natural development.
The whole time, she kept emphasizing how gifted our son was.
I felt so proud of him, and when I told his mother what his teacher had said, she felt the same.
By his next school year, with the guidance of his teacher, Marcus finished his first book: *Son's Orion*.
I could not even pretend to have any interest in reading it. I had never been much of a book person, something my son was already aware of. Knowing this ahead of time, Marcus opted to tell me about his book's story instead. It became something of a bonding time between the two of us.
His mother, much to her disappointment in me, read the entirety of Marcus's book. I bet she was only mad because she did not think she had the option to just listen to the story from the author himself.
His teacher asked us for permission to get the book published. Marcus readily agreed, but I had my doubts. After pleading from both my son and his teacher, I finally relented, stating that as long as it did not financially harm us, it would be fine.
The teacher gave me her word that she would do her very best for Marcus.
We did not hear about her efforts to publish the book for a few months. Meanwhile, Marcus started writing another book after taking a short break.
To me and my wife's surprise, his teacher came to us and showed us a contract. Apparently, someone was willing to invest in my son's work—no strings attached. Provided he was willing to keep writing of his own accord, this person was also open to continuing to publish any future books Marcus created, if we so chose.
We wanted to meet this mysterious person but were refused. The teacher explained that the benefactor wished to remain anonymous and to keep their philanthropy private. In the midst of our suspicion, the teacher assured us that she had the contract reviewed by a friend of hers who had graduated from law school and confirmed that everything in it was as the benefactor had promised.
So, we accepted this mysterious man's offer, much to the delight of my child and his teacher—not knowing the blessing that was about to come our way.
Under a pen name, my son's first book became a success, making fortunes unbefitting of his age. We were in disbelief at what was happening at the time.
But it did not end there. Marcus's next book, *A Mackle Tale*, was also well received.
By that point, it is no exaggeration to say that Marcus took us out of poverty.
We went from doing well enough to living abundantly. We purchased our own home, and even Marcus's teacher was able to buy hers, thanks to managing Marcus's work as a medium for the philanthropist we never got to meet—even after years and multiple books Marcus submitted.
With Marcus's real identity hidden under his pen name, Arcus, we lived in peace. It was a life I could never have imagined. Although we did not indulge, my wife and I were living a very fulfilled life at that point.
I still kept working, while my wife left her job and took up sewing as a hobby. It kept us entertained and sharp—a much different outlook from when we had to work just to keep ourselves afloat.
We kept most of the money our son made in a bank account for his future use. We were used to living frugally and disliked the idea of fueling a lavish lifestyle on the back of our child's hard work.
Everything seemed to be going well. Marcus finished high school and was on his way to applying for college.
But how could it have stayed that way?
I woke up to an unfamiliar sky.
With towering buildings that, with no exaggeration, reached the clouds. Technology powered by magics I thought only existed in stories.
Where am I?
How did I get here?
Whose body is this that I am wearing?
Where is my family?
What is happening to me?
As all these thoughts bombarded my head, amongst them, one echoed the loudest:
How do I get back?