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My name is Julien. I am 31 years old. I live in Dublin. I work as a process engineer in manufacturing. Shifts of 10 to 12 hours behind roaring machines, endless reports, blueprints, and the responsibility for every single little screw. From the outside, friends and acquaintances look at me and say: — "Well, an engineer in Ireland, 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 is going incredibly hard. Every week we hear new, terrifying diagnoses from the doctors. A high risk of abnormalities. They tell us straight to our face that the child could be born sick. Or not be born at all. Meanwhile, the financial noose around my neck kept tightening tighter and tighter. The rent for an apartment in Dublin costs 1,600 euros. Enormous energy bills for the heating. The health insurance that keeps getting more expensive. But the worst of all are the medical costs that the public healthcare system simply refuses to cover. Special scans, expensive private clinics, medicines that absolutely must be obtained. Two weeks ago, Sophie was crying into her pillow from the 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 AIB banking app. Balance: 42 euros. And that was all. Until payday arrives, it will take another week and a half. The most horrible thoughts haunted my mind. The despair tore me apart from the inside. To somewhat suppress that constant ringing in my ears, I picked up my phon
