My daughter is 32.

She has a master’s degree.

Good university.

Speaks beautifully.

Very intelligent.

Yesterday, I bought her another car.

Her old one had become unreliable.

At least, that is what I told myself.

The truth?

She couldn’t afford another one.

She has been “finding her feet” for six years.

I pay her rent.

Her mother sends her money.

When she wants to travel, somehow the ticket appears.

When she tried a business and it failed, I replaced the capital.

Twice.

Last Christmas, my brother asked me a question I didn’t like.

“Does your daughter know how much her life costs?”

I nearly told him to mind his own business.

Instead, I went home and calculated.

I frightened myself.

Then I noticed something even more uncomfortable.

Whenever my daughter struggled, I removed the struggle.

No transport?

Dad.

Rent?

Dad.

Business collapsed?

Dad.

Emergency?

Dad.

I had always called this love.

But that evening another word entered my head.

Dependency.

Now I don’t know where helping ends and preventing adulthood begins.

And perhaps my daughter doesn’t know either.

We have never actually discussed it.

We discuss jobs.

We discuss opportunities.

We discuss another qualification.

We discuss everything except:

“When should you stop needing my money?”

Maybe that is the conversation some families need to have.

Not angrily.

Not by suddenly cutting anybody off.

Just honestly.

I have attached The Independence Gap Check.

Perhaps the parent should complete one side.

The adult child completes the other.

Then compare.

You may discover that the problem isn’t where either of you thought it was.

— Uncle Rwamiti