My name is Peter Johnson, and I live in the quaint town of Bath, where Somerset’s old trees cast shadows over its modest streets. I’m not poor, but I’m not a millionaire; I’ve managed to save a bit throughout my life: a house, a piece of countryside land, a car, and some savings for a rainy day. My wife, Mary, and I always gave our children the best, even if it meant leaving ourselves with little. We believed self-sacrifice was natural. Over time, though, I’ve realized that such giving often breeds dependency rather than gratitude.
We have three children: Andrew, Sophie, and Michael. They are all adults and supposedly independent, or should be. Andrew, the eldest, is nearly forty. Here’s the paradox: all three are constantly in ‘trouble,’ perpetually teetering on the brink. Andrew was the first to come to me. Young and ambitious, yet perpetually complaining: the job isn’t right, the boss is an idiot, the clients are ungrateful. I helped him buy his first car, paid for his apartment down payment, then renovations, then his wife’s medical bills, and eventually just general ‘support.’ I did it because I’m a father. Because I love him. How could I say no to my own son?
Sophie, our princess, is a sensitive, artistic soul. Her marriages crumbled one after another, and jobs lasted mere months. She called, crying, voice trembling: “Dad, I can’t pay my rent…”, “Dad, I’m drowning in debt…”, “Daddy, you won’t abandon me, right?” And I didn’t — I sent money, comforted her, wiped away her tears over the phone. Meanwhile, Michael, the youngest, believed the world owed him. Unwilling to work for ‘someone else,’ he dreamed of starting his own business. I invested in his dreams: the first attempt failed, the second met the same fate, the third left nothing. Then followed loans, and eventually just transfers ‘to get by.’ I kept giving and giving.
After Mary passed away, I was alone. The children came to the funeral — they hugged me and cried. But a week later, the calls resumed. Sophie: “Dad, I know you’re grieving, but I need a lawyer, help me…” Andrew: “Dad, you’re on your own now, fewer expenses, lend me a bit more.” Michael: “Dad, Mum wouldn’t have said no.” I sent money not because I wanted to, but because I was scared of being left in silence. Hearing their voices, hearing some acknowledgment, feeling needed, even a little “thanks.” But “thanks” hadn’t been said in a long time — just new requests echoing like a distant cry in a well.
My savings dwindled rapidly. I started counting every penny at the shop, canceled trips to friends, didn’t buy a new jacket — “why bother, the old one still fits.” I suddenly realized: the kids never asked about my health, how I slept, or invited me over. Only messages: “Dad, help us out again…”, “Dad, I’ll pay you back” — no one ever did. “Dad, you’re strong, you’ll manage.” One evening, I sat in my kitchen, sipping cold tea, and it hit me: I was spent. Not from age, not from physical exhaustion, but from being reduced to a talking ATM.
That night, I wrote three letters — to Andrew, Sophie, and Michael. Brief, but firm: “I love you all. I’ve given you everything I could. Now it’s your turn to stand tall. Not a penny more, no more excuses. You’re strong, I believe in you. But from now on, I’m just your dad, not your wallet. I hope you’ll call one day not asking for money, but just to talk.” I didn’t expect responses, but they came. Andrew stayed silent — not a word, not a sound. Sophie sent a furious: “Thanks, Dad, for betraying us at the end!” Michael called. He quietly stayed on the line, then said: “I’m sorry. You’re right. I can’t remember the last time I asked how you’re doing.” His voice shook, and for the first time, I heard shame.
Nearly six months have passed. I’m eating what I like, not just what’s cheapest. I bought myself a warm coat — my first in years. I joined a senior’s art club — painting has brought color back into my gray days. For the first time, I’m not ashamed to live for myself. On my birthday, Michael 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 sadness, as before, but from pride that broke through the exhaustion and hurt.
They grew used to my ever-ready wallet. I had been their life raft, their constant debtor — for love, for their childhood. But I was tired of being a money dispenser. Andrew and Sophie remain silent — perhaps they’re angry, perhaps they’re unsure of what to say. But I no longer anticipate their calls with open hands. I have my home, my canvases, paints, and am learning to breathe free. Michael has given me hope that not all is lost, that my children might still grow beyond dependency. I’m no longer just a money machine — I am a father who wants to be loved for my heart, not my bank account. And for the first time in years, I believe it can happen.
