He asked me if there’s something I’ve wanted to buy for a long time.
I said I don’t know.
He seemed surprised. "How can you not know? There must be something you’ve wanted for a long time."
I smiled faintly. But how do I even begin to explain?
How do I tell him that I grew up not knowing how to want things? That in my house, wishes weren’t made—they were swallowed. That we lived in scarcity, not desperation. We weren’t starving, but we were always aware of limits. Aware of what we couldn't afford—not just financially, but emotionally too.
I was truly happy for my friends when they got new toys, clothes, or gifts from their parents. But I never allowed myself to wish for the same. I knew better. I knew not to ask. I knew not to hope. I knew that money went to bills, to essentials, to just getting by.
New clothes came on festivals, not whims. Birthdays were burden. Money had purpose, and that purpose was always necessity.
And so, I learned to adjust. Not just to live without, but to not even want.
That skill—adjusting—became a way of life. I carried it into adulthood, quiet and unassuming. But beneath it, something built up. Suppressed longings, unspoken wishes, untended parts of myself.
Now, sometimes I buy impulsively—not out of greed, but from those old echoes. From the child in me who never got to choose. Some long-denied joy. Some permission I never gave myself as a child.
So when he asks me, so earnestly, what it is that I’ve always wanted to buy—
I pause and think about it.
Because truthfully, I don’t long for an object. Nothing shiny or wrapped or tagged in a price. I long for something I never had the chance to name back then.
If I had to answer honestly, I’d say:
It was love.
It was softness.
It was the space to want- without guilt.
And that’s something I knew you cannot buy.
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