I was in my hometown during winter, walking downtown. Suddenly, a little boy appeared out of nowhere, approaching me shyly. In a low voice, almost ashamed, he asked me for money. He looked clean and neat—he didn’t seem like a Romani beggar.
I asked for his name, and he replied, “Melania.” She was a girl.
I gently told her, “At your age, you should be playing, not wandering the streets alone, begging for money.”
“Go tell your mother that,” I added before walking away and entering a shop. But as soon as I stepped inside, guilt washed over me. I decided to go back and look for her—I could at least buy her something sweet. After all, we shouldn’t give money to children forced to beg.
“Did you eat something?” I asked when I found her.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Then let’s get you some sweets.”
But suddenly, she changed her mind. “Can we buy sausages instead?” she asked.
Probably what her mother had taught her to request.
“You’ll eat at home. For now, you’ll get sweets,” I told her.
Inside the shop, the cashier assumed she was my child. She picked out some chocolate and a piece of gum.
As we stepped outside, I asked, “Do you want to walk with me?”
Melania nodded.
I asked her a few more questions.
“Where do you live?”
She stayed silent.
“In the city or the countryside?”
“The countryside,” she finally answered.
“Do you have siblings?”
“Two little brothers.”
“How old are you?”
“Six.”
“And your father?”
“He works abroad.”
As we strolled through the main square, we saw a street performer setting up for a violin concert. It was my first time seeing her.
“Let’s listen to some music,” I suggested.
Melania’s face lit up. “It’s so beautiful,” she whispered.
The artist began playing Voila by Barbara Pravi.
We sat in front of the performer, and I asked Melania, “If you could play an instrument, which one would it be?”
“The piano.”
I found out she wasn’t attending school yet. “Later, when you grow up,” her mother had said—probably just an excuse.
I knelt down to be at her eye level.
“What do you like to do?”
“Go to school,” she answered softly.
I sighed. “I’m sorry your mother forces you to be out here alone. But she still loves you.”
Melania shook her head. “No, she doesn’t!” Her voice wavered, almost crying.
“She beats me. Only my grandmother loves me.”
“What about your father?”
“He’s good. He loves me. But he’s away most of the time.”
I looked into her hazel eyes—so innocent, so beautiful.
“You are a good and smart girl. I hope you’ll go to school one day.”
She smiled at me.
As she became more comfortable, she started talking about other things. Then, out of nowhere, she said, “Nobody ever walked with me like this.”
She hoped to see me again and even complimented me.
“Can I hug you?” I asked.
She wrapped her small arms around me.
“I love you,” I told her—words she had probably never heard from her mother.
“I love you too!”
She shared her bubble gum with me.
“When is your birthday?” I asked.
“I don’t know. My mother never makes me a cake. She only beats me.”
“Let’s keep walking,” I said, hoping to keep her mind off it.
But from a distance, an older girl yelled her name.
She looked unkempt—a Romani girl.
Melania’s expression shifted. Fear. Without a word, she turned and ran toward the girl. She didn’t even say goodbye.
The older girl scolded her.
And just like that, she was gone.
I haven’t seen her since that day. She left me sad and thoughtful, reflecting on how often we reject these little beggar children, sometimes treating them harshly when they approach us. But every child has a story—a story they didn’t choose, just as they didn’t choose their parents or their circumstances.
We should treat them with kindness. Maybe they’re not only asking for money—maybe, deep down, they’re also asking for love.
After all, they’re just kids. And we all need love.
