My name is Peter Johnson, and I live in the quaint town of Ely, where the historic Cambridgeshire lanes are sheltered by old trees. I’m not destitute, neither am I a millionaire, but I’ve managed to save up over the years: a house, a plot outside town, a car, and a little savings for a rainy day. My wife, Mary, and I always gave our children the best, even when we barely had enough for ourselves. We sacrificed everything for them, believing it was the right thing to do. However, over time, I realized that gratitude isn’t always what you receive in return. More often, it’s an expectation for handouts.
We have three children: John, Emily, and Daniel. All are grown-ups, supposedly independent. John, the oldest, is nearly forty. And here’s the paradox: they’re all perpetually in “trouble,” constantly teetering on the edge of a cliff. John was the first to come to me. Young, full of ambition, but always with the same complaints: the job isn’t right, the boss is an idiot, the clients are thankless. I helped him buy his first car, gave him money for a flat deposit, then for renovations, and later for his wife’s treatment, and then just to “get by.” I gave because I’m a father. Because I love him. Because how do you say no to your own child?
Emily, our princess, is a delicate, creative soul. Her marriages collapsed one after another, and she couldn’t hold a job for more than a couple of months. She’d call me in tears, her voice trembling: “Dad, I don’t have money for rent…” “Dad, I’m drowning in debt…” “Daddy, you won’t abandon me, will you?” And I didn’t; I transferred money, saved her, wiped her tears over the phone. Daniel, the youngest, believed the world owed him something. He didn’t want to work “for the man,” dreaming of his own business. I invested in his dreams: first time — failed, second — another flop, third — yet again, nothing. Then came the loans, followed by just living expenses. I gave, and gave, and gave.
After Mary passed away, I was left alone. The children came to the funeral—they hugged me, cried. But the calls resumed a week later. Emily: “Dad, I know it’s hard for you, but I need a lawyer, please help…” John: “Dad, you’re on your own now, fewer expenses, can you chip in a bit?” Daniel: “Dad, Mum wouldn’t have said no.” I transferred money not because I wanted to, but because I feared the void. At least some voices on the phone, some “thank you,” the feeling that I mattered. But no one said “thank you” anymore—only new requests echoed back like voices in a cave.
The account dwindled before my eyes. I began counting every penny at the grocery store, gave up trips to my friends, didn’t buy a new coat—“why, the old one still holds.” And then I noticed: the children never asked how my health was, if I slept at night, never invited me over. Just messages: “Dad, can you help one more time…” “Dad, I’ll pay you back later”—no one ever did. “Dad, you’re tough, you’ll manage.” One evening, I sat in the kitchen, drinking cold tea, and suddenly realized: I was exhausted. Not from old age, not from bodily fatigue, but from becoming a talking ATM for them.
That very night, I wrote three letters—to John, Emily, and Daniel. Short, but firm: “I love you. I’ve given you all I could. Now it’s your turn to stand on your own two feet. Not another penny, no more excuses. You’re strong, I believe in you. But I am now just your father, not your wallet. I hope one day you’ll call just for the sake of it.” I didn’t expect replies, but they came. John remained silent—no words, no sound. Emily sent an angry message: “Thanks, Dad, for deciding to betray us in the end!” Daniel called. He stayed silent on the line for a long time, then said, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t even remember when I last asked how you were doing.” His voice trembled, and for the first time, I heard shame in it.
Nearly six months have passed. I eat what I like again, not what’s cheaper. I bought myself a warm coat—the first in years. I joined a pensioners’ club where I’ve started learning to paint—the colors brightening my gray days. For the first time, I don’t feel ashamed to live for myself. On my birthday, Daniel came over. No requests, no hints. He brought a piece of cake and said, “I’ve decided to get a proper job. I want you to be proud of me. Not for what you gave me, but for what I accomplished myself.” I cried—not from sorrow, as before, but from pride that broke through the fatigue and resentment.
They got used to having me and my wallet nearby. I was their lifeline, their eternal debtor—for love, for their childhood. But I’ve grown weary of being a cash machine. John and Emily are still silent—maybe angry, maybe unsure of what to say. But I no longer wait for their calls with their hands out. I have my home, my canvases, my paints, and I am learning to breathe freely. Daniel gave me hope—hope that not everything is lost, that my children can still become self-sufficient adults. I am no longer an ATM—I am a father who wants to be loved for his soul, not his bank balance. And for the first time in years, I believe it’s possible.
