My name is Peter Smith, and I live in the quaint town of Beaconsfield, nestled among the lush old trees of Buckinghamshire. I’m not impoverished. Not a millionaire either, but over the years, I’ve managed to save up a bit: a house, a country cottage, a car, and some savings for a rainy day. With my wife, Mary, we were always the kind of parents who gave our children the best, even when it left us with little. We sacrificed ourselves for them, believing it was the right thing to do. Yet, over time, I realized that gratitude was rare—dependency, much more common.
We have three children: James, Emily, and Thomas. They’re all grown up, independent—at least that’s what they ought to be. The eldest, James, is close to forty. Here’s the paradox: all three perpetually find themselves in “trouble,” always teetering on the edge. James was the first to come to me. Young, full of ambition, yet always with the same complaints: the job wasn’t right, the boss was an idiot, the clients were unappreciative. I helped him buy his first car, gave him money for the down payment on a flat, then for its renovation, then for his wife’s treatment, and later just to “tide over.” I did it because I’m his father. Because I love him. Because how do you say no to your own son?
Emily, our princess, a gentle soul with a creative flair. Her marriages crumbled, one after the next, and she couldn’t hold a job for more than a few months. She’d call me in tears, her voice quivering: “Dad, I can’t pay the rent…”, “Dad, I’m drowning in debt…”, “Daddy, you won’t abandon me, will you?” And I didn’t—I transferred the money, saved her, wiped her tears over the phone. And Thomas, the youngest, felt the world owed him something. He didn’t want to work for “the man,” dreaming of his own business. I invested in his dreams: the first one failed, the second one fell through, the third—another void. Then came the loans, and after that, simple transfers “for living.” I gave, and gave, and kept giving.
When Mary passed away, I was left alone. The children came for the funeral—hugged me, wept. But a week later, the calls resumed. Emily: “Dad, I know things are tough for you, but I need a lawyer, can you help?” James: “Dad, you’re on your own now, fewer expenses, lend a hand.” Thomas: “Dad, Mum wouldn’t have said no.” I transferred money not because I wanted to, but because I feared the void. At least there were voices on the phone, at least some “thanks,” a sense that I was needed. But “thanks” hadn’t been spoken in ages—only the echo of new requests.
My account dwindled before my eyes. I began counting every penny at the supermarket, stopped visiting friends, didn’t buy a new coat—”why, the old one’s still holding up.” And suddenly I noticed: the children didn’t ask how my health was, if I was sleeping at night, or invite me over. Only messages: “Dad, help me out again…”, “Dad, I’ll pay you back later”—none ever repaid. “Dad, you’re strong, you’ll manage.” One evening, I sat in the kitchen, sipping cold tea, and realized: I was worn out. Not from old age, not from physical fatigue, but from being a speaking ATM for them.
That night, I wrote three letters—to James, Emily, and Thomas. Short but firm: “I love you. I’ve given you everything I could. Now it’s your turn to stand on your own. Not a penny more, no more excuses. You’re strong, I believe in you. But now I’m just your father, not a wallet. I hope one day you’ll call not for money, but simply to talk.” I didn’t expect replies, but they came. James stayed silent—no word, no sound. Emily sent an angry response: “Thanks, Dad, for finally betraying us all!” Thomas called. He was quiet on the line for a long time, then said: “I’m sorry. You’re right. I can’t even remember the last time I asked how you’re doing.” His voice shook, and for the first time, I heard shame.
Nearly six months passed. I’m eating what I enjoy, not just what’s cheaper. I bought a warm coat—the first in years. I joined a senior club that offers painting classes—the colours have brightened my grey days. For the first time, I’m not ashamed to live for myself. On my birthday, Thomas came by. No pleas, 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’ve given me, but for making it on my own.” I cried—not from sorrow, as before, but from the pride cutting through the weariness and hurt.
They’d grown accustomed to me being there with a wallet at the ready. I was their life preserver, their eternal debtor—for love, for their childhood. But I was exhausted from being a money-dispensing machine. James and Emily remain silent—maybe they’re angry, maybe they’re at a loss for words. But I no longer anticipate their calls with an outstretched hand. I have my home, canvases, paints, and I’m learning to breathe freely. Thomas has given me hope, that not all is lost, that my children can still become self-reliant. I’m no longer an ATM—I’m a father who wants to be loved for his spirit, not his bank account. And for the first time in years, I believe that’s possible.”
