Working Abroad Doesn’t Mean We’re Rich

You think I’m rich, don’t you?

Because I live abroad.
Because I left home.
Because the money I send looks big in your currency.
Because you see my photos and think I’ve made it.

But let me tell you what you don’t see.

You don’t see the double shifts.
The days that blur into nights.
You don’t see the aching feet, the silent meals,
the birthdays I miss,
the funerals I watch through a screen.

You see smiles, but not the weight behind them.
Not the tired eyes.
Not the quiet sobs when the call ends and the room falls silent again.

Yes, I earn more than I did back home.
But do you know the cost?

Time with my children.
Hugs I can’t give.
Stories I don’t get to hear at bedtime.
Milestones I witness through poor internet and pixelated screens.

Every ngultrum I send you?
It’s not magic.
It’s standing for hours.
It’s lifting, serving, cleaning, caring.
It’s swallowing pride when someone talks down to me.
It’s smiling even when it hurts.

I didn’t come here for luxury.
I didn’t chase riches.
I left because I had to.
Because staying meant letting dreams die slowly.

I don’t want your pity.
But I do wish for understanding.

Because we’re not rich.
We’re just trying to survive.
And sometimes, that’s the most expensive thing of all.