For most of my life, I have had a complicated relationship with money.

We weren’t poor. My parents paid for things. We were provided for. But money in our house was never neutral. It was watched. It was negotiated. It was weaponized.

My mother taught me early that the man controls the money. He decides. He approves. You justify the ask in order to be provided for. Don’t ask for too much. Don’t appear ungrateful.

She reinforced that lesson in quiet ways.

We would go school shopping and she would buy what I needed. But when she paid, I watched her write “groceries” in the checkbook. Sometimes she split the total into multiple checks to make the amounts look smaller. Afterward, she would lean toward me and say, “Don’t tell your father.”

If he was home when we returned, the bags stayed in the trunk. I wasn’t allowed to bring them inside until he left. Once they were in my room, I had to remove the tags so there would be no visible proof of cost hanging in my closet.

But he was always watching.

If I wore something new, he would narrow his eyes and ask, “When did you get that?”

In those moments, I felt trapped. Do I tell the truth and betray my mother? Or lie and risk being caught?

If I lied and he sensed it, the hitting would come. My mother would stay silent.

Money was never offered. It had to be requested, and requesting meant exposure.

My father controlled it completely. My mother deferred to him in everything financial. She would say, “Go ask your dad,” like it was neutral, but it felt like being sent into something dangerous.

I remember standing in the hallway rehearsing the sentence. How much would I need to not feel left out? How little could I ask for so I wouldn’t be mocked?

I decided to let him be in control of the amount “Dad. I need some money for my field trip, please.”

He reached for his wallet slowly. No smile. He pulled out a single dollar bill, snapped it between his fingers, and handed it to me.

“Don’t spend it all in one place.”

He knew it wasn’t enough. I knew it wasn’t enough.

Heat rushed to my face. Shame crawled up my neck. If I reacted, it would escalate. If I showed gratitude, I would betray myself. I started crying anyway.

“Don’t be so sensitive. I was just joking.”

I learned that asking was dangerous. That provision came with scrutiny. That silence was safer than truth.

Meanwhile, my father spent freely on himself — $300 wingtip shoes, custom monogrammed shirts, expensive suits, multiple cars. It was disorienting to be called “expensive” by the most expensive person in the house.

Over time, my body began reacting before my mind could catch up. Any conversation about money — spending it, asking for it, even receiving it — could trigger a surge of heat, a pounding heart, a sense of impending catastrophe. My nervous system didn’t think I was reviewing numbers; it thought I was being chased by a tiger.

This script replayed itself over and over throughout my life. And about ten years ago, I had had enough.

For Mother’s Day, the seven of us — my parents, my husband, our three children, and me — went to a steak restaurant because it was the only reservation available. When my mom told me where we were going, I immediately asked, “Are you sure Dad is okay with that? It’s expensive.” She assured me he was.

At the table, I watched him tally the bill as we ordered. I saw him scan our plates to see if we finished our food. When the check arrived, he grabbed it, looked at the total, and said loudly in front of everyone — in front of my children — “This was TOO expensive. I’ll cover it, but we won’t do this again.”

I felt humiliated. Sick. Twelve years old again.

I swallowed my rage, stood up from the table, and walked out to the valet, fighting back tears. When the car arrived, I got in without saying goodbye.

I decided that day I would never spend Mother’s Day with them again.

Ten years later, I can still feel the humiliation in my body.

Today, when I log into my bank account and watch a large number move — a transfer, a bill, an investment — I sometimes pause and wait for the explosion that never comes.

No one yells.
No one questions me.
No one narrows their eyes.

The room stays quiet.

And in that quiet, there is grief.

I have often said about my parents: I just wanted love and they wrote checks.

They paid for schools and activities and appearances. They signed their names. They provided.

But you can’t hug a check.

You can’t feel safe inside a ledger. You can’t be protected by a number written in blue ink.

Money was used to provide. It was used to control. It was used to silence.

It was never used to hold me.

With my own children, I am trying to do it differently. We talk openly about money — about budgeting, planning, and making choices. They understand that spending means tradeoffs and that responsibility matters.

But I work hard to make sure they never confuse a gift with love or a price tag with worth.

My children are not line items on a ledger. They are human beings worthy of love and care.
Just as I was a child who was not an expense and was worthy of love and care.