Money is not happiness

One Saturday afternoon I decided to go for a stroll through Seville. I came to a plaza surrounded by shops and sat on a bench to watch the children running after the pigeons watched by their parents, the newlyweds walking hand in hand and gangs of youths gathered to chat.

Ahead of me a group of girls spent more or less my age laden with bags from different stores. One said, indignantly, "Yes, aunt, my parents only gave me sixty euros. As if that could buy something! ". I stared as they walked away amazed that sixty euros consider little money.

I kept thinking when something hit my foot. It was a dirty tennis ball. I picked it up and a little boy approached me. Must have been about seven years and wore a shirt too big for him and torn trousers. His face was thin and dirty.

- The ball is yours? I asked.
"Yes," replied the boy. My mom gave me for my birthday.
- Where is she?

The boy pointed to a corner of the square. His mother was young and was dressed as poorly as the child. He stood before a traffic light trying to sell tissues to drivers.

The small still there, smiling. I returned her smile and the ball. After thanking me and continued to play with her.

The lamps were lit in the square and looked at the clock. I was getting late.

I looked at the boy, now sat on a bench next to his mother, and compared touched his attitude toward the girl. With more certainty than ever thought about how much money moves us away from happiness.

I got the bank to back home. The boy saw me and left me shaking hands effusively. I returned the greeting and remembered the angry face of the girl. He was unhappy despite it all.

I realized that was precisely that, not knowing the value of things that made her feel that way. Some pigeons flew away and I watched.

At that moment I thanked my parents never have given me sixty euros for shopping.