Guilt
I had started earning from my first semester of university.
It wasn't a fortune, but it was mine.
And because I was earning, my family naturally began to rely on me financially to some extent.
There was one particular incident I still remember.
My mother had ordered a parcel.
This wasn't unusual. She had a habit of ordering things, sometimes forgetting about them until they arrived. Money that was meant for the household would sometimes end up being used to pay for those parcels, and somehow, she would still fall short.
In an already inflated environment, I was beginning to notice how quickly my own money disappeared whenever I helped.
There would be nothing left for me.
So, when her parcel arrived that day, I lied.
“I'm sorry, Mama, but I don't have any money.”
I did.
In fact, I had enough to pay for the parcel.
And that's what made the lie feel worse.
I wasn't saying no because I couldn't help her.
I was saying no because I didn't want to.
Or maybe because I was beginning to wonder how long I could keep doing this.
How long could I keep covering for someone who struggled to manage the household finances?
My mother silently left the room.
Maybe she believed me.
Maybe she didn't.
I couldn't tell.
A little while later, I heard her asking my two oldest siblings for the money.
And guess what?
They had it.
They paid for the parcel.
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That should have made me feel better.
It didn't.
The guilt stayed.
I still remember it as if it happened yesterday.
And the strange thing was, I knew the facts.
It was my money.
I had earned it.
I had every right not to share it with anyone.
I didn't owe anyone every rupee simply because I had earned it.
But then another thought would creep in.
I also had the right to help my family.
Wasn't that part of the reason I wanted to earn money in the first place?
To be useful?
To help when someone needed it?
To make things a little easier for the people I loved?
And maybe that's where things get complicated.
Because there is a difference between helping your family and feeling like you are responsible for your family.
I don't think I understood that difference back then.
All I knew was that I had money, my mother needed money, and I had said no.
Even though I was allowed to.
Even though someone else helped her.
Even though nothing actually fell apart because I refused.
I still felt guilty.
Maybe that's another role you learn to play in a dysfunctional family.
Not just the smart one.
Not just the responsible one.
