![The Chicken Story [Short Story on Grit]](https://ml7ficfuhpav.i.optimole.com/gA4G7jQ-N8pHflrG/w:743/h:385/q:mauto/https://milachervenkova.rocks/wp-content/uploads/2020/10/The-Chicken-Story-Short-Story-on-Grit-1.png)
I recently told my twin sister that my biggest dream when I was five years old was to buy a whole grilled chicken and eat it myself.
I've never grown up having a lot.
We are a family of five, raised during the falling communism (or during the "rising democracy") in Bulgaria.
The grilled chicken was a luxury food for us.
One grilled chicken for five.
I wanted to taste the wing, the chicken leg, and some white meat.
But a chicken has only two wings, two legs, and two breasts.
And we were five. So how the hell can you taste them all?
I can clearly recall how my mom ate mainly the leftovers over the chicken bones so that her three children could have more meat.
And I hated it.
I still hate that memory when I think about it.
Cliché or not, everything I've been through over the last 8 10 years has the sole goal of starting my own business so that I can secure my parents' financial future.
Money isn't the most important in my story, but money is a significant driver when you are hungry.
Never doubt the value of someone's dream when it is inspired by the people who gave them a beating heart.
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