The future

When my dad first started working, he'd spend all of his pay whenever he got it. He wasn't thrifty nor responsible with money, values that he'd always tried to inculcate in us. For their wedding, my dad had to borrow $4,000 from my grandma.

"She would nag at me endlessly," he recalled of my grandma. "Imagine," he chuckled, "I had to borrow money from my own mother to marry your mom."

This was the first time I heard this story. It continues to amaze me, that despite hearing years and years of anecdotes from two generations, I still feel like I'm a little girl, sitting on their lap, listening to these treasures that I hope never to lose.

In all honesty, I still see it in my dad: not that he spends recklessly, but his occasional indulgences in his toys -- MP3 players, thumb drives, CD cases -- do give him away.

"So it was only after you married Mommy that you decided you had to stop this spending habit?" I asked what I thought was the obvious.

"No," he answered.

I raised my eyebrows, then when?

"I think I only learnt to plan for the future when you were born. I learnt to plan for your future."

As he said that, an unfamiliar silence hung in the air, as we both registered -- I think, for the first time -- the poignancy of that revelation. Tears stung my eyes, and a lump formed in my throat. I couldn't speak even if I'd wanted to.

Thank you, Dad, for planning for our future. For always putting us first.