When I started working my first real job, the first thing I did was set up a standing order to send my mother $1,000 every month. It was automatic, consistent, and came from a place of deep gratitude. After all, she had raised me on her own, sacrificing meals, sleep, and comfort to ensure I never lacked anything.
For seven years, I sent that money. I called her every Sunday, visited every few months, and smiled when she brushed off any talk about money.
"Beta, I have everything I need. Your voice is worth more than dollars."
Still, I kept sending the money. I imagined her buying groceries without worry, keeping the heater running during the cold Chicago winters, maybe even treating herself to a new sari now and then. It gave me peace.
But when she passed away suddenly from a stroke, that peace shattered.
While arranging her funeral and sorting through her belongings, I met with her bank to settle her account. I expected to find some savings, at least a small cushion from all those deposits. Instead, the statement told a different story.
Balance: $12.43.
I thought it was a mistake. I cried right there in the bank. Confused. Hurt. Betrayed, even. Where had all the money gone?
I asked the manager for the transaction history. What I found unraveled a story I never imagined.
Every month, within a day of my deposit, a series of withdrawals occurred—$200 here, $300 there, often labeled with names I didn’t recognize. Over the years, more than $80,000 had vanished into thin air.
I drove home in a daze and went straight into her bedroom. Under her mattress, I found an old metal box. It contained dozens of notes, each with a name, amount, and the word "given".
Then I remembered. The neighbor whose son had cancer. The widow down the street with five kids. The cousin she said she hadn’t seen in years. She had seen them—and given to them.
My mother had been quietly redistributing the money I gave her to help others.
I found thank-you letters tucked inside books, school photos of children I didn’t know, and a few receipts from charities with handwritten “God bless you” notes attached.
She hadn’t spent a dime on herself.
I felt grief wash over me again—but it was different this time. It was mixed with awe. My mother, who lived in a cramped apartment and always wore the same three saris, had lived like a queen in generosity.
Weeks later, at her memorial, strangers came up to me. Some wept. Others hugged me.
“She saved my son’s life.”
“She paid for my daughter’s tuition.”
“She gave me rent money when I had no one else to turn to.”
Each story added a layer to the portrait of a woman I thought I knew completely.
She had been a lifeline for many.
I went back to the bank, closed her account, and used the last $12 to buy a single white rose. I placed it on her grave and whispered:
"You had nothing in your bank, Ma—but your heart was overflowing."
