The Money She Gave Me

My mother gave me £125,000 over the past year.

On paper, that looks like generosity.
But it didn’t feel that way.

It felt like silence money. Like don’t challenge me money. Like you owe me now money.
There were no strings attached in words — but they were there in tone, in avoidance, in the unspoken agreement that love could be replaced with transactions.

And for a while, I accepted it. I needed the security.
I still do, to some extent. I don’t regret using it. But I see it now for what it was.

There’s a part of me that fantasises about earning enough through poker one day to pay it all back.
Not because she asked for it. But because I want to cut the cord completely.
A clean break. A symbolic “I owe you nothing.”

But then I realised — keeping it is also a kind of freedom.
Because I’m not spending it out of guilt.
I’m not using it to inflate my lifestyle.
I’m holding it carefully — as a cushion, a safety net, a future investment in my son.

If anything, I plan to give it to Victor one day — in a way that serves his growth, not ties him to mine.

It’s not about revenge.
It’s about reclaiming power.

She gave me money. But she never gave me nurture. Never gave me safety. Never gave me the kind of love I needed.

So now I’m learning to give those things to myself — and to the next generation.

Not because I’m perfect.
But because I know what it feels like to go without.