You ever just stare at your phone screen, knowing you gotta send that money, and you just feel... empty? Like, you’re hitting ‘confirm’ on a bank transfer for a few hundred bucks, and it’s going all the way across the world, to the parent you haven’t seen in five years. And you think, *that’s it, isn’t it? That’s my love. A number in an app.* Like a crappy digital hug. What kind of son does that make you? A good one? A bad one? You tell yourself it’s what they need, it’s practical. But god, it feels so… thin. Like a cheap paper napkin when what you really want is a whole damn feast. I remember my dad, god rest his soul, he was always there. Fixing things, telling me off, even when I was a grown man with kids of my own. Just… *there*. And now, with Mom, it’s just me and this screen. She’ll call, “Did you send it?” And I’ll say yes. And she’ll say “Good.” Not even a thank you most of the time, just “good.” And you know what? That’s fine. That’s how she is. But you start to wonder if that money, that distance, means you’re just the ATM now. You know, you move halfway across the world for a better life, and you get it, sure. My kids are doing great here. But the price… the price is your parent, getting older, on the other side of the planet, and you’re just… sending money. And hoping it’s enough. Hoping it makes up for not being able to just… *be there*. It’s been a couple years since Dad passed. That was a rough one. I flew back, of course. Took two weeks off work, burned through savings. Sat by her, held her hand. And even then, I felt like a fraud. Like, I’m here *now*, but what about all the years I wasn’t? What about all the times she probably needed someone to just sit with her, not just send cash for her meds or the roof repair? Dad, he used to joke, “You’re just sending us your salary, eh? Not yourself.” He said it laughing, but it always stuck. And now he’s gone, and it’s just her, and just the money. Sometimes you just wanna scream. Or throw your phone against the wall. Because what are you supposed to do? You built a whole life here. Your kids are practically strangers to the old country now. And you can’t just pack it all up and go back, can you? To what? To nothing. To being poor again. So you stay. You work. You send the money. And you feel like a damn failure every single time that transfer goes through. Like you’re buying forgiveness, or buying peace. And it works, for a minute. Until the next bill comes in. Or the next phone call where she sounds a little more tired. And you realize you’re just stuck in this loop. This endless loop of sending money and feeling like a crap son. And now… now she’s gone too. Just a few months ago. And the money transfers stopped. And I just… sit here. With all this money I used to send her. And this big, gaping hole. Like, what do I even do with myself now? The thing that made me feel bad and good all at once, that’s gone. And I’m just… me. Without that. And it’s… weird. Like, a punch in the gut, but also, a weird lightness. You know? What the hell is that even about?