Some people are born into families that nurture them, offering warmth, understanding, and support without conditions. But some of us, especially daughters raised in patriarchal homes, learn early that our real support systems often come from the friendships we build, not the families we’re born into.
Over time, I’ve come to accept that everyone is living out their own karma. Yet it still hurts to see how often love and respect are used as tools of silence. We’re taught to suppress our voices in the name of familial harmony, but isn’t that, in itself, a quiet act of self-betrayal?
There are also those who insist they act only out of love, untouched by material motives. But that, too, is a convenient illusion that protects them from the discomfort of truth. It’s easy to preach detachment when the balance of power or privilege leans in your favour.
For people like me, who have often stood at the losing end of this unspoken bargain, asking for what is ours becomes an act of rebellion. We’re called materialistic, greedy, or ungrateful labels meant to shame us back into silence. Yet what they call greed is often just fairness, and what they call love is sometimes possession in disguise.
There is something profoundly painful about watching greed wear the mask of care. But perhaps the greater sorrow lies in realising that love, when filtered through entitlement and control, loses its soul.
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