They said they needed help for rent and meds. Turns out, $200 of my money was going straight to his Xbox.
I live abroad, have a stable job, and send my parents a monthly allowance. It’s not charity—it’s just what we do in our culture. They live in a less developed country, and I’ve always wanted to support them.
But then I noticed something off. My younger brother—who also moved abroad—suddenly had a new phone, concert tickets, and bragged about not paying rent for two months.
I asked him straight up. He laughed and said, “Mom’s been covering me.”
I called her. She got quiet. Then admitted that yes, she’d been sending him part of the allowance I gave her. Said it was “only fair,” since he was “struggling.”
Struggling? He works part-time and plays video games all day.
So I told her—if you send him $200, I’m reducing my allowance by $200.
She got defensive. Said I was “punishing her” for helping her child. I reminded her I’m her child too—and the one paying the bills.
Now my aunts are calling me ungrateful. My siblings are silent.
But the part that really floored me? The message my dad sent later that night—
“You’ve changed. This money has made you cold.”
I sat with that message open on my screen for a long time.
I wanted to reply right away. But anything I typed felt wrong—too emotional, too defensive, too hurt. So I just let it sit.
“You’ve changed.”
Maybe I had. Maybe sending hundreds each month while skipping vacations, cutting corners, and working long hours had changed me. Not into someone cold, but into someone tired.
Still, I couldn’t shake the guilt. I remembered when I was a kid, and my dad walked three hours just to get me antibiotics. I remembered my mom sewing clothes for me late into the night. They’d given up a lot for us.
But that was the problem: they gave up for all of us, not just me. And now it seemed like I was the only one giving back.
The next morning, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in years—I booked a flight home.
I told them it was just a surprise visit. I didn’t mention the money. I wanted to see things with my own eyes.
When I arrived, the house looked mostly the same. Paint a little more chipped, garden a little more overgrown. My mom looked tired, but happy to see me. My dad hugged me like he hadn’t hugged me in a decade.
For the first day, I said nothing.
I helped my mom cook. I watched the TV with my dad. I asked about neighbors, cousins, and who had moved away.
On day two, I got up early and checked their medicine cabinet.
Every prescription I’d been sending money for? Half were expired. Some were unopened. I asked casually about the meds, and Mom waved it off, saying, “We get the generic ones now, much cheaper.”
Later that afternoon, I found the wire transfer receipts. Every month, like clockwork, $200 sent from her account to my brother’s.
That night, I asked my parents to sit with me at the table.
“I need to ask something. And I need you to be honest,” I said.
They glanced at each other.
“Are you really struggling with bills? Or have you been sending money to help him out behind my back?”
My mom looked away. My dad rubbed his forehead.
“We were going to tell you,” my mom whispered.
“Tell me what? That he’s your favorite?”
“Don’t say that,” she snapped, her voice trembling. “He’s just… not as strong as you.”
I stared at her.
“He’s not strong because you never let him be. You cushion him with money, and he spends it on Xbox games and concerts while I’m over here rationing groceries so I can help you.”
My dad leaned forward. “He’s been depressed. He says he’s trying.”
“He’s always trying,” I shot back. “Trying, but never doing. And you keep rewarding it.”
There was a long silence. I felt awful. Not for what I said—but because I finally realized how deep the problem ran.
My brother wasn’t just spoiled. He was enabled.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I messaged my brother and told him I’d like to meet for coffee.
He showed up an hour late, hoodie pulled low, AirPods in, phone in hand.
“I’m only here because Mom begged me,” he said, not even sitting down properly.
I didn’t waste time.
“You’re getting $200 a month of the money I send them. Do you feel good about that?”
He rolled his eyes. “They want to help. You act like it’s some huge deal.”
“It is a huge deal,” I said. “I’m not your ATM. And they’re not your safety net.”
He scoffed. “You’ve always been so full of yourself.”
“You know what? Maybe I am,” I said. “But I earned that right. I’ve worked hard. I send money not to be praised, but because I thought it was needed. Not so you could live like life’s one big video game.”
He stood up. “Whatever. You rich folks just like to lecture.”
And with that, he left.
I didn’t cry. I just sat there, watching the condensation run down my glass.
When I got home, my mom was in the kitchen. I told her what happened.
She looked heartbroken. But she didn’t defend him this time.
“You’re right,” she said softly. “We’ve made excuses for too long. We didn’t want to believe we were hurting you to protect him.”
I nodded. “You’re still my parents. I love you. But I need boundaries.”
So we made a plan.
From now on, I’d send a smaller allowance—but I’d pay directly for what they needed: medicine, utilities, groceries. No more cash transfers. No more middleman.
At first, they seemed hurt. But then they agreed.
Three months passed. And something strange happened.
My brother stopped talking to all of us. He blocked my number, barely replied to my parents, and disappeared from family chats.
At first, we worried. But then my aunt called. Apparently, he’d moved in with a friend—and for the first time in years, he got a full-time job.
It wasn’t glamorous. Warehouse work. Night shifts. But he was doing it.
The fourth month, my dad sent me a photo of him and my brother fixing a broken fence together. No words—just the photo.
In the background, my brother was smiling.
I don’t know if things will ever be fully healed. But I know I did the right thing.
Setting boundaries doesn’t mean you love people less. Sometimes, it means you love them right.
Money didn’t make me cold. It made me see clearly.
And clarity? That’s worth more than any paycheck.
If this story hits close to home, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Like and share if you believe in tough love with a soft heart.
