Someone asked me recently, “Surely you can remember something nice about him?”

I stopped and really thought about it.

I searched through thirty-two years of memories, trying to find moments of generosity, kindness or selflessness. But every memory that surfaced came with a condition attached.

It wasn’t that he never gave a gift or did a favour. It was that everything seemed to come with an invisible invoice.

Birthdays?
A present was expected to be matched by one of equal value OR more.

Christmas cards?
Why send one unless they sent one first? Every year the list became shorter because someone had failed the loyalty test.

Helping family?
“No. They never do anything for me.”

Giving friends a lift?
“I’m not a taxi service.”

Inviting people for dinner?
“Only if they’ve had us over first.”

Giving away things no longer needed?
“Throw it in the bin. They never give us anything.”

Helping adult children with their homes?
“They earn more than us. They can pay someone.”

Visiting grandchildren?
“They’ve got their own lives. They’re too busy to see me.”

Every request, every invitation, every opportunity to be kind was met with another excuse.

No.

No.

No.

Over time I realised the answer wasn’t based on whether something was right or wrong, kind or unkind. It was based on one question:

“What’s in it for me?”

This is the exhausting reality of living with an extremely transactional person.

Relationships become ledgers.

Generosity becomes a business deal.

Kindness becomes an investment expecting a return.

Nothing is done simply because it would make someone else happy or make life a little easier.

People stop asking.

Family stop expecting.

Friends drift away.

The circle becomes smaller and smaller, yet the transactional person often believes everyone else is selfish, while never recognising that unconditional generosity has quietly disappeared from their own life.

Looking back, I don’t remember the presents or the favours because they were never freely given. I remember the calculations, the scorekeeping and the endless reasons why helping someone wasn’t worth the effort.

So when someone asks, “Can’t you remember anything nice?”

My honest answer is this:

I remember plenty of actions that looked nice on the surface.

What I struggle to remember is a single one that wasn’t attached to a motive, an expectation, a repayment or a condition.

And after thirty-two years of hearing “No,” I finally understand why that is the memory that stayed with me.