The Me Who Wants to Send Money Home and the Me Who Wants to Keep Some

Almost eleven thirty at night. I am sitting on the step in front of the row of rented rooms, half a baguette from the end of my shift still in its paper bag, my hands carrying the smell of frying oil and fish sauce even after three washes at work. The corridor light is yellow, a few moths circle the bulb, the sound of motorbikes slows at the mouth of the alley. My phone lies face down beside me, because I know there is a message from Mom in it: "Have you eaten, remember to dress warm."

I am thirty-three, a prep cook on the evening shift at a restaurant, and every month as the tenth gets close, this thing starts up in my head. Mom never mentions money. And because she never mentions it, I hear it louder.

Tonight the two voices in my head sat down to talk, like two people on this same step. I am only writing it down. I am not deciding between them.

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Send: The tenth is coming.

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Keep: I know. This month I want to keep a little. Only a little.

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Send: A little is how much? Mom's porch roof leaked all through last rainy season. She doesn't say so, but I saw it on video.

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Keep: I didn't say I won't send. I said keep a little. Why does that sound like I'm abandoning her?

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Send: Because she has nobody else. When I was small she worked two shifts at the market, and every lunchbox I had came with an egg, while she ate rice with fish sauce. I remember it clearly.

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Keep: I remember too. But I'm tired, I'm thirty-three now, my night-shift jacket is frayed at the collar, the fan in my room squeaks like a wheelbarrow. I don't want to buy anything big. I just want to feel that something in my hands is mine.

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Send: That sounds like demanding.

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Keep: Not demanding. Scared.

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Send: Scared of what?

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Keep: Of looking back one day and not finding myself anywhere in those numbers. I work all day, and at the end of the month there's no place where I'm standing.

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Send: ...I'm scared too.

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Keep: Of what?

The-Me-Who-Wants-To-Send: That Mom will think I've forgotten her. I'm not afraid she'll go without, I'm afraid she'll think I forgot.

The two voices went quiet for a while. Out in the alley someone dragged a metal gate shut, iron on concrete echoing along the whole row. I bit into the bread, cold now, the crust gone chewy.

What I saw in that moment was that the voices are not opposed the way I had thought. Both are afraid of the same thing from two sides: being seen as no longer loving. One voice fears Mom will see me that way. The other fears I will see myself that way. What is really heavy is not the amount, but that both voices are asking am I still a good child, and that is not a question a number can answer.

I also thought this: between those two voices, neither one is "the more dutiful child." If you have two voices like these, nobody wins anywhere. There is Mom at one end, me at the other, and between them a stretch of road that money is only one way of crossing, not the only way.

I tried one small thing, and it did not settle the number, only the feeling wrapped around my neck.

Five minutes is just a number that is easy to remember. You know you did it right when you find one word the two voices share, or at least see that the two sheets do not completely contradict each other. Mine was the word afraid. The first time, I laughed a little, because both sheets came out the same length. After a week, some people say they argue less in their heads as the tenth approaches. Others still argue, only now they know what they are arguing about. On a busy day, cut it to one voice, one sentence, thirty seconds.

One place it slips: turning the two voices into two parties and holding a vote. Whichever sounds more reasonable wins and the other is told to be quiet. It sounds tidy, but the voice that lost the vote does not vanish. It goes into hiding and speaks louder the next day. Let both say enough first, and only then worry about anything else.

If you try this and the voices will not stop, or the worry about money has gone on for weeks, to the point where it cuts into sleep or meals, then talking with someone qualified, such as a financial counsellor or someone who works in mental health, is a reasonable step. Before that, if you like, you could try writing down three worries and scheduling time for them later, so they do not push into the whole evening. And if the argument already feels familiar, another piece is about the conversation I rehearsed in my head for two weeks, and you may see yourself in it.

I ate the last bite of bread, folded the paper bag, and put it in my pocket. The phone stayed face down. Mom's message was still there, and I will answer it. First, only this: "I've eaten, Mom. You sleep early too."

The tenth can wait until tomorrow.

Out in the alley someone had just switched off the last bulb. Only the yellow light of the corridor remained, a few moths around it, and a child sitting on a step, not yet knowing what she will do, but knowing what she is afraid of.