I was still living with my parents in my early thirties—the same time I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. It was a season marked by confusion and exhaustion, when my entire sense of self felt like it was unraveling. One afternoon, my father looked at me with that familiar mix of frustration and bewilderment and asked, “Why do you keep asking me for money?”

I looked at him, the answer raw and unvarnished:

“Because that’s the only thing you can give me.”

Why would I keep asking for something you’re not capable of giving? Why would I beg for love, or understanding, or moral support, or empathy—when I have spent a lifetime learning you do not know how to offer any of those things? Money is easy. Money is safe. Money doesn’t require you to see me, or to reach out and hold the pain I carry. It doesn’t ask you to witness the chaos inside my mind or the ache in my heart. It’s the only currency you ever handed over without resentment, the only thing you could give without confusion or fear.

But for years, I tried to please you. I twisted myself into shapes I thought might make you proud. I chased perfection, hoping that if I was good enough, smart enough, successful enough, you might finally see me as whole. I wanted nothing more than to be your daughter—not your burden, not your disappointment, not something broken you had to fix. But deep inside, I was suffering. The price I paid for your approval was too much. I lost myself in the bargain, and still, I was never enough.

What fault does a child have? What sin could I have possibly committed to deserve a life where love is rationed and affection is a foreign tongue? I was a child when all of this began—innocent, unknowing, desperate only to be loved the best and only way I knew how. I have spent decades trying to earn what should have been given freely. I have only ever wanted you to see me—not as broken, not as a problem to be solved, but as your child, worthy of love and understanding.

So I stopped asking for what you could never give. I took the money, and I built my own walls, brick by brick, with every unanswered plea. I learned to survive on what was offered, and I mourned what never was. Sometimes, the greatest poverty is not of money, but of love. And sometimes, the only thing left is to accept what is given, grieve what was withheld, and keep loving in the best and only way I can.