My name is Peter Johnson, and I live in the quaint town of Bedford, where the streets are shaded by ancient trees. I’m not penniless, nor a millionaire, but over the years, I’ve managed to gather some assets: a house, a plot of land out of town, a car, and a small savings account for a rainy day. My wife, Mary, and I always put our children first, even if it meant leaving very little for ourselves. We sacrificed much, believing it to be our duty. But over time, I realized gratitude isn’t always guaranteed—instead, dependency often creeps in.
We have three children: James, Emma, and Edward. All grown, all meant to be independent. James, the eldest, is nearing forty. Yet, paradoxically, all three seem forever in “trouble,” perpetually teetering on the brink. James came to me first—a young man full of ambition but constantly complaining about his job, his boss, and ungrateful clients. I helped him buy his first car, contributed to a down payment for a flat, then for renovations, his wife’s medical bills, and later, just to ‘tide him over.’ I did it because I’m his father. Because I love him. Because how could I say no to my own flesh and blood?
Emma is our princess, a tender and creative soul. Her marriages fell apart one after another, and jobs lasted a mere couple of months. She called me in tears, her voice trembling: “Dad, I can’t pay the rent…”, “Dad, my debts are suffocating me…”, “Daddy, you won’t leave me, will you?” And I didn’t—I’d transfer money, comfort her, wipe away her tears over the phone. Edward, the youngest, acted as if the world owed him. He didn’t want to work for “the man,” dreaming instead of starting his own business. I invested in his dreams: the first time, he failed; the second time, he crashed again; the third, nothing. Then came loans, followed by funds merely “for living.” I kept giving, giving, giving.
When Mary passed away, I found myself alone. The kids came for the funeral—we embraced and cried together. But a week later, the calls resumed. Emma: “Dad, I know it’s tough, but I need a lawyer, can you help…?” James: “Dad, now you’re on your own, with fewer expenses, could you spare some cash?” Edward: “Dad, Mum would have helped.” I transferred money not out of desire but out of a fear of silence. At least some voices on the line, any semblance of gratitude, a sense of still being needed. But gratitude had long vanished, replaced only by echoing requests.
My savings dwindled rapidly. I began pinching pennies at the market, avoided trips to friends, skipped buying a new coat—“why bother, the old one is still good.” Then I noticed: none of them asked about my health, whether I slept well at night, or invited me over. Just messages: “Dad, help out one more time…,” “Dad, I’ll pay you back later”—no one ever did. “Dad, you’re tough, you’ll cope.” One evening, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of cold tea, I realized: I was drained. Not from old age or bodily fatigue, but from being turned into a talking ATM.
That night, I wrote three letters—to James, Emma, and Edward. They were brief but firm: “I love you. I’ve given you everything I could. Now it’s your turn to stand on your own. No more pounds, no more excuses. You are strong, I believe in you. But from now on, I’m just your father, not your wallet. I hope one day you’ll call not for money, but just because.” I didn’t expect replies, but they came. James stayed silent—no word, no sound. Emma fired back with anger: “Thanks, Dad, for abandoning us at last!” Edward called. He was silent for a while, then admitted, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I can’t even remember the last time I asked how you were.” His voice trembled, and for the first time, I sensed his shame.
Nearly six months have passed. I savor what I love, not what’s cheaper. I bought myself a warm coat—the first in years. I joined a pensioner’s club where I’m learning to paint—bringing color back into my grey days. For the first time, I’m not ashamed to live for myself. And on my birthday, Edward came. No asks, no hints. He brought a piece of cake and said, “I’ve decided to get a decent job. I want you to be proud of me—not for what you gave me, but for what I achieved on my own.” I cried—not from sorrow, as before, but from the pride that broke through weariness and hurt.
They were used to me always being ready with an open wallet. I was their lifeline, their eternal debtor—out of love, out of their childhood. But I grew tired of being a cash machine. James and Emma remain silent—maybe they’re angry, maybe unsure of what to say. But I’m no longer waiting for their calls with hands outstretched. I have my home, my canvases, my paints, and I’m learning to breathe freely. Edward gave me hope that all is not lost, that my children can become people, not dependents. I am no longer an ATM—I am a father who hopes to be loved for his heart, not his bank balance. And for the first time in years, I believe it’s possible.
