It was the autumn of 2021, and the air in my small apartment in Panama smelled of reheated coffee and sweat from a long day. My name is Andrés, and although I was never one to dream of mansions or luxury cars, I always wanted to give my mother, María, a better future. She lived in a humble little house in a neighborhood on the outskirts, with cracked walls and a roof that trembled with every rain. I worked loading boxes in a warehouse, a job that left my body exhausted and barely a few bills to send her each month. But it was never enough to get her out of that tough life. Until I discovered cryptocurrencies.
It all started with a warehouse colleague, Carlos, who wouldn't stop talking about Bitcoin and Ethereum. "It's the money of the future, Andrés," he would say, with a spark in his eyes. I didn't understand much, but the idea of earning something more, of giving my mother a decent house, captivated me. I spent sleepless nights reading forums on my old phone, watching videos on YouTube with the neighbor's wifi. Finally, in May 2021, I made a decision: I invested all my savings, $8,000 that I had saved with sweat over the years, in a cryptocurrency that everyone said was the next big thing: LUNA. It wasn't much, but to me, it was everything. Every dollar was an extra shift at the warehouse, a sore back, a hope.
At first, it was like a miracle. LUNA started to rise. In months, my $8,000 turned into $20,000, then $35,000. I remember checking my phone during breaks at the warehouse, with my hands dirty from dust, watching the numbers grow as if by magic. I made plans: to buy my mother a new house, with a yard where she could plant her roses; maybe pay for a course to leave the warehouse and look for something better; perhaps, someday, take her to see the ocean in Bocas del Toro, something we had never been able to do. I told María about my earnings, even though she didn't understand anything about cryptos. "Take care, son," she would say with that warm voice that always calmed me. "Don't let money lead you."
But I was blinded. Blinded by hope, by the idea of a future that seemed so close. In April 2022, LUNA reached its peak, and my investment was worth almost $50,000. I felt on top of the world. I thought about selling, but in the Telegram groups, they said it could still go higher, that LUNA was "unstoppable." I decided to wait. "Just a little longer," I told myself.
Then May 2022 came. Everything collapsed in an instant. LUNA, which seemed like steel, started to fall. First, it was a drop, then a crash. I remember sitting in my room, with my phone shaking in my hands, watching how my $50,000 turned into $10,000, then $1,000, and finally, into less than $100. The collapse of LUNA was like a hurricane that swept away the dreams of thousands, including mine. I tried to sell, but there was nothing left to save. The market had vanished, and with it, all that I had dreamed of.
That night I couldn't sleep. I stayed in an old chair, staring at the peeling wall of my apartment, with a knot in my chest. It wasn't just about the money. It was the house I wouldn't buy for my mother. It was the rose garden she wouldn't have. It was the promise I made to her, shattered into pieces. I cried silently, not for myself, but for María, for the illusion I gave her and now took away. When I called her the next day, I didn't have the courage to tell her everything. I only said that "things didn't go well." She, with her immense heart, simply replied: "It doesn't matter, Andrés. The important thing is that you are okay."
But I wasn't okay. For months, I carried a guilt that ate me alive. Every time I visited my mother and saw the leaks in her house, or the worn floor, I felt like I was drowning. I had the chance to change her life, and I lost it by trusting blindly, by wanting more than I should. I tried to recover something, put the little I had left into other cryptos, but the market was still turbulent, and each attempt felt like stabbing myself with a knife.
Today, three years later, I still carry boxes in the warehouse, saving little by little, with a body more tired than before. My mother still lives in that little house, but she has never held anything against me. Sometimes, when I visit her, she shows me her roses, the few that she manages to keep alive in that dry yard. "Look, Andrés, this one bloomed today," she says with a smile. And I smile, even though inside I break. Because those roses, fragile but stubborn, are like her: they endure despite everything. And I, with my mistake, let her down.
Sometimes, I open my digital wallet and see the balance: $87 in LUNA, a cruel reminder of what could have been. I don't sell it, not because I think it will go up, but because it's a lesson I need to carry with me. A lesson about how fragile dreams are, about the danger of chasing shiny promises. And even though I move forward, there are nights in Panama, with the sticky heat and the noise from the street, where nostalgia traps me, and I cry silently for the life I didn't give my mother, for the promise I didn't keep.
If you read this, do not feel pity for me. Feel pity for the dreams that shatter when we trust too much in what shines. And if you ever feel tempted by the fever of cryptos, remember me. Because what hurts the most is not losing money, but losing the opportunity to make the one you love the happiest.