My name is Peter Johnson, and I reside in the quaint town of Beaconsfield, where the quiet streets are shaded by old trees. I’m not poor, but far from being a millionaire. Over the years, I’ve managed to save a bit: a house, a small piece of countryside property, a car, and some savings for a rainy day. My wife, Olivia, and I always gave our children the best we could, even if it meant having little left for ourselves. We sacrificed everything for them, thinking it was our duty. However, as time passed, I realized that gratitude wasn’t always returned—often it was just a habit of handouts.
We have three children: Charles, Emily, and James. They are all adults now, or at least they should be by now. Charles, the eldest, is almost forty. The irony is that all three are always in some sort of “trouble,” perpetually on the edge. Charles was the first to come to me. Young, full of ambitions, yet always with the same complaints: wrong job, foolish boss, ungrateful clients. I helped him buy his first car, gave him money for a house deposit, then for renovations, later for his wife’s treatment, and eventually just to “get by.” I gave because I’m his father. Because I love him. Because how could I refuse my own son?
Emily—our princess, with a tender, creative spirit. Her marriages crumbled one after the other, she couldn’t hold down a job for more than a few months. She would call, her voice trembling with tears: “Dad, I can’t pay rent…”, “Dad, debts are suffocating me…”, “Daddy, you won’t leave me, right?” And I didn’t; I wired money, saved her, comforted her through the phone line. Then there’s James, the youngest, who believed the world owed him. He didn’t want to work for others; he dreamed of starting his own business. I invested in his dreams: first time—failure, second—again a bust, third—nothing but emptiness. Then came loans, followed by just regular “living” allowances. I just kept giving and giving.
When Olivia passed away, I was left alone. The children came for the funeral—they hugged me, we cried together. Yet, a week later, the calls resumed. Emily: “Dad, I know it’s hard for you, but I need a lawyer, help me…” Charles: “Dad, you’re on your own now, fewer expenses, can you spare some cash?” James: “Dad, Mum wouldn’t have said no.” I sent money not because I wanted to, but because I feared facing emptiness. At least there’d be voices on the phone, a slight “thank you,” a sense of being needed. But no one had said “thank you” for a long time—just new requests, echoes in a well.
The account dwindled before my eyes. I began counting every penny at the store, stopped going to visit friends, didn’t buy a new coat—”why bother, the old one’s still fine.” Then I noticed: the kids never asked about my health, if I slept at night, they never invited me over. Only messages: “Dad, bail me out again…”, “Dad, I’ll pay back later”—nobody ever did. “Dad, you’re strong, you can handle it.” One evening, as I sat alone in the kitchen sipping cold tea, I suddenly realized: I was spent. Not from age or physical exhaustion, but from being a talking ATM for them.
That night, I wrote three letters—to Charles, Emily, and James. Brief, yet firm: “I love you. I’ve given you everything I could. Now it’s your turn to stand up on your own. No more pounds, no excuses. You are strong; I believe in you. But now I’m just a father, not a wallet. I hope you call one day not for money, but just because.” I didn’t expect responses, yet they came. Charles remained silent—not a word. Emily sent an angry reply: “Thanks, Dad, for abandoning us at the end!” James called. He stayed silent on the line for a long time, then quietly said: “Sorry. You’re right. I can’t even remember when I last asked how you were.” His voice wavered, and for the first time, I heard shame in it.
Half a year passed. I’m finally eating what I enjoy, not what’s cheapest. I bought myself a warm coat—the first in years. I joined a local art club for seniors, the colors bringing life to my grey days. For the first time, I’m not ashamed to live for myself. On my birthday, James 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’ve given me, but for what I’ve accomplished on my own.” I cried—not from grief as before, but from pride that broke through the exhaustion and pain.
They had grown accustomed to me being ready with an open wallet. I was their lifeline, their eternal debtor—owed for love, for their childhood. But I’m tired of being a money-dispenser. Charles and Emily remain silent—perhaps they’re angry, perhaps they don’t know what to say. But I no longer anticipate their requests for help. I have my home, my canvases, my paints, and I’m learning to breathe freely. James has given me hope that not all is lost, that my children can become independent, not remain dependents. I’m no longer an ATM—I’m a father who wants to be loved for his heart, not for his bank balance. And for the first time in years, I believe it’s possible.
