The Uncharted Pathways

When I was fifteen, I asked my father a question that had been quietly gnawing at me for a while. “Why does Mom always say never to mix money with friends or family? Isn’t that what love is—being there when someone needs help?”

He gave me that soft, knowing smile he always wore when he didn’t want to answer directly. “You’ll understand when you grow up," he said.

I hated when they did that—gave me riddles instead of real answers. But years later, I found myself sitting on my apartment balcony, tea cooling in my hands, repeating my mother’s words like a mantra I had finally come to believe.

"I just don't get it," I told my husband, anger tightening my voice. "Why would Dad go against everything Mom believes in and lend that much money to Uncle? It’s been five years. Five."

He didn’t respond. He knew this conversation had been brewing in me for weeks—maybe months.

“It’s not just the money,” I went on. “It’s the disrespect. The other day at that Diwali party, Uncle and Aunty were beaming, talking about their ten-day trip to London. London! And here we are, just watching, waiting, pretending like nothing's wrong.”

I could still hear Uncle’s voice echoing in my head from past conversations: "Times are tough, but I’ll return it when I can. Just a little longer." He had said it so many times, it had become his shield. And oddly, it worked. Everyone—Dad, the other friends who were the victims—stopped asking. Not because they no longer needed the money, but because they were too embarrassed to bring it up again. The borrower had more dignity left than the ones who had helped him.

And that stung.

The most painful part wasn’t even the financial loss. It was the emotional erosion. Every time my parents ran into Uncle, he wore the same cheery smile, as if he owed no one a thing. As if nothing had ever passed between them. And I watched my mother bite back her frustration, forcing herself to be civil, while managing the finances at home, thinking only if, he had the decency to return it, they would be in a better place while Dad stood awkwardly silent—too proud to beg, too kind to demand.

One afternoon, I sat beside my mother on her favorite swing in the garden, “You were right,” I told her. “About the money and mixing it with people you love.” She didn’t say anything. She just looked ahead, eyes fixed on something far away. So I continued, “It changes things,” I whispered. “You start to see people differently. You begin to measure them not by how they were with you, but by how they made you feel after they walked away with something they promised to return.”

She finally spoke, her voice soft. “Some paths aren’t meant to be walked. They look kind, paved with love, but they take more from you than you’re ready to give. Sometimes, they don’t lead back.”

My father had always hoped kindness would bring the money back. And maybe someday it still will. But the price he paid wasn’t just the amount he lent. It was the silence he now shares with an old friend who used to feel like family.

As for me, I’ve carried that lesson into my own life. My husband and I have dreams, yes—big ones—but we've drawn lines in places that protect both our hearts and our relationships. It’s not about being cold. It’s about being careful. Because some debts go far beyond money.