The Price of Gold There was once a man named Kola who lived in a quiet town near a flowing river. He was not born rich, but he had something far more valuable—a loving wife, two cheerful children, and a peaceful home filled with laughter. At first, Kola worked honestly as a trader. He earned enough to feed his family, and they were content. But as time passed, Kola began to compare himself to others. He saw bigger houses, finer clothes, and heavier pockets. Slowly, contentment left his heart, and greed took its place. “No matter how much I have,” he told himself, “it will never be enough.” Kola started spending less time at home and more time chasing money. He ignored his children’s laughter and his wife’s gentle advice. When he earned a profit, he wanted double. When he got double, he wanted more. He cut corners, broke promises, and chose money over people. His wife tried to warn him. “Riches mean nothing if we lose each other,” she said. But Kola only waved her words away. Soon, his greed began to poison everything. He missed important moments at home. He was never present, even when he was there. His children stopped running to him. His wife grew silent. The house that once felt warm became cold. One day, Kola took a risky deal, driven by his hunger for quick wealth. It failed badly. In trying to gain everything, he lost what little stability he had left. Stress filled the home, arguments became common, and love faded under the weight of his choices. Unable to live in constant disappointment and neglect, his wife took the children and left to start a new life elsewhere—one built on peace, not promises of money. Kola came home one evening to an empty house. No laughter. No warm meal. No voices calling his name. Only silence. That night, surrounded by the money he had chased so fiercely, Kola finally understood the truth: wealth can buy comfort, but it cannot buy back time, trust, or love. And the greatest loss of all was not money—it was the family he once had and could never replace. Moral: Greed blinds the heart. When you value riches more than people, you may gain money—but lose everything that truly matters.Days turned into weeks, and weeks into years. Kola remained alone in the house that once echoed with joy. The money he had chased so desperately now sat unused, stacked in corners like silent witnesses to his mistakes. Each coin reminded him of a moment he had chosen wealth over love. At first, pride kept him from changing. He told himself his family would return when they saw his success. But success without people to share it with felt empty. Nights grew longer, and silence became his only companion. One evening, while cleaning the house, Kola found an old wooden toy his son had carved with him years before. His hands trembled as memories flooded back—laughter, warmth, and promises he never kept. For the first time, Kola wept, not for lost money, but for lost moments. That night, he made a decision. He sold part of his wealth and began helping people in the town—widows, struggling traders, hungry children. He worked honestly again, not to gain more, but to give back. Slowly, his heart softened, and the town began to trust him once more. Though his family never returned, Kola learned to live with humility. He taught others what he had learned the hard way: that greed destroys quietly, and love must be protected fiercely. In the end, Kola was no longer remembered as the richest man in the town, but as a man who changed—too late to save his family, but not too late to save his soul. Final Lesson: Greed may promise everything, but it often takes the most precious things first. Only humility and love can heal what greed has broken.Years passed, and the town itself seemed to grow older with Kola. New faces arrived, old ones departed, but his presence remained constant—quiet, humble, and changed. The man who once spoke loudly about profits now spoke softly about patience. The same hands that once clutched money now reached out to help others stand. Every morning, Kola woke before sunrise. He swept the front of his house, cooked simple meals, and walked through the town greeting people with respect. Some still remembered the man he used to be, and they watched him closely, waiting to see if his change was real. Kola did not rush them. He knew trust, once broken, needed time to heal. He began teaching young traders how to work honestly—how to measure fairly, speak truthfully, and value people more than profit. When disputes arose in the market, Kola helped settle them calmly, reminding everyone that peace was worth more than winning. At night, however, when the town slept, memories returned. He remembered his daughter’s voice asking him to listen. He remembered his son waiting by the door, hoping his father would come home early. He remembered his wife’s tired eyes, filled not with anger, but disappointment. Those memories never left him. They followed him like shadows, not to punish him, but to remind him. One rainy evening, a traveler arrived in town. The man was tired, his clothes worn from long journeys. Kola offered him shelter and food. As they talked, the traveler mentioned a distant town where families rebuilt their lives after hardship. He spoke of a woman who had once been married to a trader, a woman known for her strength and kindness. Kola’s heart skipped. He did not ask for names. He did not ask for directions. He knew better than to chase what he had already lost. Some losses, he had learned, were lessons meant to last a lifetime. Still, that night, he prayed—not for reunion, but for their happiness. Wherever they were, he hoped his children laughed freely and his wife slept peacefully. As time went on, Kola became a pillar of the community. When floods destroyed homes, he gave money without announcing it. When sickness spread, he helped organize care. When young people spoke of success, he reminded them gently that wealth was a tool, not a purpose. One day, a young boy asked him, “Uncle Kola, why don’t you have a family?” Kola knelt so they were eye to eye and answered truthfully, “I had one. I loved money more than I loved them, and I paid the price.” The boy frowned. “Can mistakes last forever?” Kola paused before replying. “Some do,” he said softly. “But they don’t have to make you cruel. They should make you wiser.” As Kola grew older, his hair turned gray and his steps slowed, but his spirit remained steady. People came from neighboring towns to hear his story—not as gossip, but as warning and wisdom. He never hid his past, never softened his failures. He believed the truth, even when painful, could save others. On his final years, Kola wrote his story down. Not to defend himself, but to teach. He wrote about how greed begins quietly, how it convinces you that “just a little more” is harmless. He wrote about how love does not leave loudly, but fades when ignored. And he wrote about how regret is the most expensive thing a person can own. When Kola finally passed, the town mourned him deeply. Not because he was rich, but because he was honest. They buried him under a tree near the river where he once dreamed of wealth. On his grave, they carved simple words: “He learned too late, but he taught many in time.” And so, Kola’s story lived on—not as a tale of loss alone, but as a reminder that greed destroys silently, humility rebuilds slowly, and love, once neglected, must never be taken for granted again.