Why are they building a massive duplex in the village they barely go to? They still pay rent in the city. They know they’ll probably only sleep in that house once a year, if at all. But they’re doing it anyway — not because they need it, but because they want people to say they’ve arrived.
They’ll spend money they don’t have helping extended family. Feeding adults who should be feeding themselves. They’ll break their backs for everyone else while their own children are just there, figuring life out with no foundation.
No plans. No investments. No real backup. Just expectations.
Then when those same children grow up, they want them to come back and give them a luxury life they never even prepared them for. They want soft life from kids they didn’t give soft beginnings.
And somehow, they’re also hoping those cousins and uncles and distant relatives they helped will remember and come back to pay them back one day. They’re betting on guilt. On obligation. On “they will not forget me.” We all know how that story always ends.
They’ll stay in miserable marriages, dying slowly inside and call it “sacrifice.” They’ll use their kids as the reason why they never left, not realizing those same kids were watching. Learning. Absorbing that pain. Thinking that’s what love is supposed to feel like.
They’ll go to every burial. Every wedding. Every village meeting. Just so when they die, people will attend theirs. They’re living their whole lives in debt to how others will mourn them. That’s crazy when you think about it.
Everything is image. Everything is show. Even when it’s bleeding them dry.
And the saddest part? They think it’s love. They think it’s responsibility. But a lot of the time, it’s just fear. Fear of being talked about. Fear of being alone. Fear of seeming like they failed.
And the children are the ones left to untangle the mess.
And Please come to the comment section to tell me “oh that my daddy is not like the other daddies and my mommy is not like the other mommies”
Do it. I dare you
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