Reading Time: 8 mins #
This post may contain affiliate links.
The phone rang while I was packing socks for an online order, my side hustle when I’m back in Dallas, when not nomading around the globe. Selling online is second nature to me, just me and my laptop. I almost didn’t hear it, muffled under a pile of cotton and tissue paper. Empathy wasn’t on my mind. I recognized the tune immediately, an old pop song from our teenage years, the one Amber and I danced to in our basement until Mama hollered at us to go to sleep.
Â
I smiled. Brushed the lint off my fingers and picked up.
Â
“Hey, Sava, hon,” she said.
Â
Her voice was different. The bright chirp I knew was missing. It was low, stretched thin, like a rubber band left too long in the Texas heat. I noticed. I kept folding socks. I was busy. My own problems were loud. Sometimes being a good sister is just inconvenient.
Â
We talked about nothing. The weather was already hitting ninety by noon—the kids. Joe’s job is unstable and ever diminishing. Then she took a breath, the kind you take before you jump off something high.
“Can you loan me $800?”
Â
My stomach tightened. Eight hundred dollars. I had it, not easily, but I had it. Amber had borrowed before: two hundred here, three hundred there. She always paid back, but always late. Late with a story. Accompanied by a sigh.
Â
My brain did the math before my heart could speak. She still owes you four hundred from last year. Joe’s hours aren’t coming back. The kids need winter coats. You need a new transmission.
Â
“No, lil pea,” I said. “I can’t right now.”
Â
The silence on the line was louder than any scream I had ever heard.
Â
Amber said okay. Her voice was a flat line, like a fading pulse. I felt a flicker of something… guilt? annoyance? and let it slide. We talked for five more minutes about nothing. Then hung up.
Â
I went back to my socks.
The Regret That Arrives Late
Two weeks later, I was folding laundry again. A blouse. I tried a file fold, the Marie Kondo method, on a pair of jeans, and as I flopped them, a dried-up, crinkled dollar bill fell onto the floor. I was not searching, but the memory found me and hit me like a screen door slamming in a windstorm. I never asked what the money was for.
Â
I dropped the jeans. Planted myself on the edge of my bed. My cat, Gus, wandered in and headbutted my ankle. I did not pet him. What if the money was for something urgent, or something shameful that Amber couldn’t say out loud? What if Joe had lost his job completely? Perhaps the kids needed something I could have helped with?
Â
That wasn’t like me. Not the Texas girl my Mama raised. I hadn’t asked a single question. I never said, “What is happening?” I never asked, “Are you okay?” I never offered “How can we figure this out together?” Just “No.”
[The Dollar on the Floor | moneycatzzz.com]
I forgot that consideration is a small muscle. Mine had atrophied from disuse, like a porch swing nobody sits on anymore.
Â
I thought about all the times I had said “I’m sorry” without stopping to feel sorry. All those nods while my mind wandered, the countless moments I considered myself the only person in the room.
Â
Empathy requires pausing long enough to wonder what someone else might be carrying. I had not paused. Love would have asked one simple question, but I didn’t.
The Unanswered Calls
I called Amber that night, but did not get an answer. She didn’t pick up the following day either. I texted: “Hey sweet pea, thinking of you. Call me when you can.”
Â
A week later, a short reply: “Busy. Talk soon.”
Â
Gus curled in my lap. I stared at the wall. The $800 was no small sum – not huge, not trivial either. But the money was never the point. I had not considered her needs before I refused. I had treated her like a line item on a budget. I had forgotten she was a person with a breakable heart.
Â
The truth crept in while I sat with Gus. I had been annoyed; she had borrowed before. My own money situation was tight, so I was anxious, trying to protect myself. Nothing wrong with that, but I never once looked at her side.
Â
I had been so busy building walls around my own little kingdom that I forgot my little sister was drowning on the other end.
What I Should Have Asked
Vulnerability has little to do with crying in public. More often, it means allowing yourself to sit in not knowing. I did not want to know why Amber needed the money. Knowing might make me responsible, or guilty, or require me to do something uncomfortable.
Â
So I shut it down.
Â
I should have just asked. Softly. Without any agenda.
Â
“What is going on, Amber?”
Â
“Are you okay?”
Â
“Tell me more.”
Three simple, open questions. It would not have changed my answer. But they would have let her feel seen, let her know that her sister was not a bank teller with a cold window between them.
Â
Emotional presence can be simple. Showing up without an agenda is often enough. I had one. Finishing packing the socks. Protect my finances. Her needs didn’t fit into my afternoon. That was my failure.
The Repair That Took Time
Three weeks went by before Amber finally called. Her voice was tired but not angry. She apologized for not responding. Just as I thought, she had been embarrassed. The money was for Joe’s medical bill. Nothing life-threatening, but unexpected. She did not want to tell me because she knew I would worry. She just needed help.
Â
I told her I was sorry. A real, sincere one. The kind you say when you mean it, sitting on the porch with a glass of sweet tea sweating in your hand.
Â
I told her I should have asked. I told her I was practicing being better, most of the meditation sessions in Bali didn’t rub off on me. She laughed. A small laugh, like a breeze through the screens. “You always were the slow one, Sava.”
We cried a little. Then we talked about the kids. Gossiped about Gus. Laughed about nothing.
Â
I sent her the money that night. Not $800. More. She tried to refuse. I told her to hush and take it.
Â
Amber taught me something. Life with blinkers on blurs the vision. Seeing without asking is not the same thing. Sending money does not fix everything. Something had to break in me before I could learn to pause.
[The Space Between | moneycatzzz.com]
What I Practice Now
I don’t always remember. But when I do, it saves me. I ask myself one thing before I answer. What are they carrying that I can’t see?
Â
The practice has made me slower, less efficient, but more human. It has saved me from a dozen small, innocent cruelties.
Â
I haven’t mastered empathy yet. I am not sure if total mastery is possible, but I am getting better.
Â
I still catch myself. Last week, a friend texted about a rough day. My first instinct was to send a quick “That sucks, hope it gets better.” That is the old me: the sock-folding, phone-ignoring, wall-building me.
Â
I pivoted. I asked, “Do you want to talk about it, or do you want a distraction?” She wanted both. We talked for an hour. I did not fix anything. I just listened.
Â
“Whether it is situation or people, our emotional presence is much more important than our physical presence!” — Dipika Agarwal.
The Phone Rings Differently Now
My self-imposed visa in the US is nearing expiration. My feet are aching to walk the beaches of Boracay, my lips are eager to taste the tea in Yunnan. I’ve sold my socks inventory and updated my Etsy account.
Â
Texas called, “Y’all come back now!” and the cowgirl in me had come home.
Â
Gus still sits on my lap. The laundry still piles up. But I am slower now. I ask more questions. I consider more than my own reflection.
Â
Empathy is a muscle. Mine had atrophied from years of disuse. I’m learning to flex it.
Â
One pause at a time. One question instead of a quick no. Empathy asks for presence, not perfection.
Â
The phone rings. I answer. And I listen. That’s enough empathy for now.
If You Want to Sit with This Longer
The Art of Asking
 Daring Greatly
Disclosure: This post may contain affiliate links. We only recommend products we believe in, and we may receive a commission at no cost to you! Thank you for your support!
Acknowledgment: Cover Image by moneycatzzz.com
Disclaimer: The information is provided for general information only – moneycatzzz.com makes no representations or warranties in relation to the information, including but not limited to any representation or warranty as to the fitness for any particular purpose of the information to the fullest extent permitted by law. While every effort has been made to ensure that the information provided in this article is accurate, reliable, and complete as of the time of writing, the information provided in this article should not be relied upon to make any financial, investment, real estate or legal decisions. Additionally, the information should not substitute advice from a trained professional who can take into account your personal facts and circumstances, and we accept no liability if you use the information to form decisions.
