There is a certain silence I sit with every month.
It comes just after I open my banking app.
Just before I send money back home.
It is not bitterness.
It is not resentment.
It is just… silence. Like a breath I forgot I was holding.
Because I am the family bank.
And the bank must always open.
A Title I Never Applied For
I didn’t get an official letter. No one called a family meeting.
There was no induction, no welcome pack, no HR orientation.
Just one day, my uncle sent me a message: “Little something for your cousin’s school fees, please.”
The next month, it was my sister’s rent.
Then it was grandma’s medicine.
Then it was uncle’s “urgent situation” that somehow lasted three years.
I want to say no.
Sometimes, I do.
But the guilt is like a shadow.
It grows when the sun is bright — especially when life is going well here.
They Think I’m Rich
To them, I live in the land of money.
They see Instagram posts. British houses. Tidy streets.
They don’t see the overdrafts. The council tax letters. The way I measure rice with mathematical precision near the end of the month.
I used to try explaining.
I’d say things like, “Money’s tight this month” or “I’m between jobs.”
They’d reply with prayer hands and “God will provide.”
And somehow… God still looks like me.
I Want to Help. But I Am Tired.
This is the part I am ashamed to say out loud:
I love them. Deeply.
I want to see my siblings succeed, my mum rest, my cousins flourish.
But I also want to buy a proper mattress. To take a holiday. To go one month without anxiety gnawing at my wallet.
Last year, I ghosted everyone for two weeks after payday.
My phone rang like I owed a debt to joy itself.
I cried on the bathroom floor with my forehead on the cold tile.
Not because I didn’t want to help —
but because I couldn’t keep helping without disappearing.
Who Takes Care of the Bank?
When the bank breaks down, who fixes it?
When I was sick for three weeks, no one asked if I had enough paracetamol.
When my landlord increased the rent, I paid it silently.
When my mental health wobbled like jelly, I held it together so no one back home would worry.
I am the bank.
And banks do not cry.
But I Am Also a Person
I am someone’s son. Someone’s friend.
I have dreams too — ones that do not include spreadsheets of family emergencies.
Sometimes I wonder what my twenties would have looked like if I had kept everything I sent back.
Would I own a home?
Would I have said yes to that weekend trip to Spain?
Would I walk a little lighter?
I Am Learning Boundaries
This year, I made a budget. I created a “Family Help” category.
If it runs out, it runs out.
Not out of love — but out of wisdom.
I have started saying no, kindly.
Started being honest about my own needs.
Started reminding myself that I cannot pour from an empty bank.
Because I am not just the family bank.
I am also the family future.
And I deserve to be whole.
To everyone like me:
You are not alone.
You are not ungrateful.
You are not selfish for choosing self-preservation.
Your love does not always have to look like a money transfer.
Sometimes, it looks like rest.
