My name is Frida. I am 61.

I have three adult children.

They went to excellent schools. Two studied abroad. They travelled. They wore good clothes. They never worried about school fees.

At 24, each got a car.

I used to look at them and think:

Frida, you have done well.

I grew up watching my own mother struggle.

I promised myself:

“My children will never suffer like that.”

And they didn’t.

I worked.

God, I worked.

I built a successful business.

Their father was equally busy. Always travelling. Meetings. Deals. Conferences.

We told ourselves we were doing it for the children.

When I missed a school event, I brought a present.

When Dad returned from a long trip, everybody got something.

Birthdays became enormous.

Holidays abroad. New phones. Pocket money.

Whatever they needed, we provided.

Whatever they wanted, we tried.

I thought that was love.

Then the children grew up.

That is when the invoice arrived.

😂

My eldest son is 35.

His business has failed three times.

I financed all three.

My daughter is 32. She has a good job.

I still pay her rent.

The youngest is 28.

Last month he called:

“Mum, I have a small problem.”

In our family, “small problem” is usually followed by a large bank transfer.

😂

One Sunday I complained to Uncle Rwamiti.

“These children don’t understand how hard life is!”

He nodded.

“They don’t know what it means to struggle!”

Another nod.

“Everything comes too easily!”

Still nodding.

I became irritated.

“Uncle, say something!”

He put down his tea.

Then asked:

“Frida, when exactly were they supposed to learn?”

Silence.

“I worked myself to death for those children!”

“I know.”

“I gave them EVERYTHING!”

“I know.”

Then he asked quietly:

“Frida… could that be the problem?”

That question followed me home.

I remembered the school plays I missed.

The evenings I arrived after they were asleep.

Their father constantly travelling.

The presents.

The holidays.

The money.

Had we sometimes used provision to compensate for presence?

And had I become so determined that my children would never struggle that I removed some of the struggles that might have taught them how to stand?

That hurt.

But Uncle Rwamiti wasn’t finished.

“Frida, guilt is another luxury you cannot afford.”

“What do I do?”

“You cannot go back and raise them again.”

He smiled.

“But you can decide what your love looks like now.”

Perhaps good parenting isn’t giving our children everything we never had.

Sometimes it is allowing them to develop something we were forced to develop:

the ability to carry their own lives.

Uncle Rwamiti says:

A mother who carries the basket for her child out of love should not be surprised when the child’s neck remains soft.

— Uncle Rwamiti
Making sense of change through ethical storytelling.