My name is Peter Johnson, and I live in the quaint town of Bedford, where the streets of Bedfordshire rest quietly under the shadow of age-old trees. I’m not impoverished by any means. Not a millionaire, of course, but over a long life, I’ve managed to save a bit: a house, a plot outside the city, a car, and some rainy-day savings. My wife, Mary, and I always believed in giving our kids the best, even if it meant we made do with little for ourselves. We sacrificed for them, thinking it was the right thing to do. But over time, I’ve realized: gratitude isn’t always the reward. More often, it’s a reliance on handouts.
We have three children: John, Emily, and David. All adults, self-sufficient—or at least, they should be. Our eldest, John, is pushing forty. And here’s the irony: all three are forever in “trouble,” perpetually on the verge of disaster. John was the first to come to me. Young, full of ambition, but with the same complaints: the job was wrong, the boss was a fool, the clients ungrateful. I helped him buy his first car, gave money for a flat deposit, then for renovations, then for his wife’s treatment, and then just to “get by.” I gave because I’m their dad. Because I love them. Because how do you say no to your own son?
Emily—our princess, a sensitive, creative soul. Her marriages crumbled one after another, her jobs lasted no more than a couple of months. She called in tears, voice trembling: “Dad, I can’t pay the rent…”, “Dad, the debts are suffocating me…”, “Daddy, you won’t abandon me, will you?” And I didn’t abandon her—I transferred money, rescued her, wiped her tears over the phone. And David, the youngest, seemed to believe the world owed him. He didn’t want to work for someone else, he dreamed of his own business. I invested in his dreams: the first time—failure, the second—another collapse, the third—still nothing. Then came the loans, and after that just transfers “to get by.” I gave, and kept on giving.
When Mary passed away, I was left alone. The kids came for the funeral—hugged me, cried. And a week later, the calls began again. Emily: “Dad, I know it’s hard for you, but I need a lawyer, please help…” John: “Dad, you’re on your own now, less expenses, can you spare some cash?” David: “Dad, Mum wouldn’t have said no.” I transferred money not because I wanted to, but out of fear of the emptiness. Any voice on the line, any “thank you,” any semblance of being needed. But no one said “thank you” anymore—just new requests, like echoes in a well.
The account dwindled before my eyes. I started counting every penny at the supermarket, stopped visiting friends, didn’t buy a new coat—”why bother, the old one is still serviceable.” And then I noticed: the kids didn’t ask about my health or if I was sleeping well, they didn’t invite me over. Only messages: “Dad, help out one more time…”, “Dad, I’ll pay you back later”—but no one ever did. “Dad, you’re strong, you’ll manage.” One evening, I sat in the kitchen drinking cold tea and suddenly realized: I was spent. Not from old age, not from bodily fatigue, but from becoming a talking ATM for them.
That very night, I penned three letters—to John, Emily, and David. Short, yet 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’re strong, I believe in you. But I’m now just a father, not a wallet. I hope one day you call me not for money, but just because.” I didn’t expect replies, but they came. John stayed silent—no words, not a sound. Emily sent an angry message: “Thanks, Dad, for deciding to betray us all at the end!” David called. He was silent on the line for a long time, then managed: “Sorry. You’re right. I can’t even remember when I last asked how you were.” His voice shook, and for the first time, I heard shame in it.
Almost half a year has passed. I’m eating what I enjoy again, not just what’s cheap. Bought myself a warm coat—the first in years. Joined a pensioners’ club where they teach painting—colors have brightened my grey days. For the first time, I’m not ashamed to live for myself. And on my birthday, David came over. No requests, no hints. He brought a slice 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 managed myself.” I wept—not from sorrow like before, but from pride that broke through the exhaustion and resentment.
They were accustomed to me always being there with a ready purse. I was their safety net, their eternal debtor—for love, for their childhood. But I’ve grown tired of being a money-dispensing machine. John and Emily remain silent—maybe they’re angry, maybe unsure of what to say. But I no longer await their calls with an open hand. I have my home, my canvases, my paints, and I’m learning to breathe freely. David has given me hope that not all is lost, that my children can still become people, not dependents. I’m no longer an ATM—I’m a father who wants to be loved for my soul, not my bank balance. And for the first time in years, I believe it’s possible.
