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My name is Oliver. I am 38 years old. I live in London. I work as a process engineer in manufacturing. 10 to 12-hour shifts behind roaring machines, endless reports, blueprints, and the responsibility for every single tiny screw. From the outside, friends and acquaintances look at me and say: — "Well, an engineer in the UK — that sounds solid. A good foundation, security for the future." If only they knew. The past six months, my life has felt like a slow, hellish torture. My wife Sophie is pregnant. Our first child. But the pregnancy has been incredibly difficult. Every week we hear new, terrifying diagnoses from the doctors. A high risk of abnormalities. They tell us straight to our faces that the baby could be born sick. Or not be born at all. Meanwhile, the financial noose around my neck kept tightening tighter and tighter. Rent for a flat in London costs £2,600. Enormous energy bills for heating. The ever-rising cost of living. But the worst of all are the medical costs that the NHS simply refuses to cover. Specialist scans, expensive private clinics, prescription medicines that absolutely had to be obtained. Two weeks ago, Sophie was crying into her pillow from pain and fear. And I was standing in the pharmacy, realising that I didn't have enough money on my card for the next prescription. I had to ask the pharmacist to take some of the supporting vitamins for my wife off the bill. I felt like the most worthless man on earth. A man who cannot protect his own family. Last Tuesday, I didn't sleep a wink. Sophie was sleeping in the next room after a few heavy IV drips. I sat on the floor in a dark kitchen and opened my Barclays banking app. Balance: £42. And that was it. Payday was still a week and a half away. The most horrible thoughts haunted my mind. Despair was tearing me apart from the inside. To somewhat suppress that constant ringing in my ears, I picked up my phone and began aimlessly scrolling through my feed. An advert popped u
