I am struck by stories of people whose substantial wealth comes to light only after their death. They could have allowed themselves something, yet they lived as though they owned nothing: constant sacrifices, comforts postponed, wishes dismissed before they even asked whether they could afford them. In the end, a sum remains that surprises everyone else. I wonder how much better it could have made its owner's life while they were still here.
I do not know everyone's reasons. I would not want to mistake a choice to live simply for an unhappy life, or presume to explain someone else's fears. Some people are content with little and have no desire for the things I might want. My question concerns a different situation: when we could improve our lives, and would like to, but keep denying ourselves permission.
The title contains a paradox: once we are dead, we no longer spend. Other people will make the decisions. That is precisely why I would like money to have a purpose before it becomes an inheritance: to serve the person who earned, saved and looked after it, and the people with whom they share their life.
The Money That Remains, the Life That Does Not Return
Wealth can change hands. A Sunday spent together, a longed-for journey, the pleasure of a more comfortable home cannot be passed on in the same way. Those who inherit can make their own choices, but they cannot give back to the person who has died the opportunities they gave up. The money in the account is still available; that person's time is not.
I do not think leaving something to your children is a mistake. It can be an act of love, a source of security, the outcome of a shared plan. For me, the problem begins when the size of what we will leave behind becomes the measure by which we judge every decision today, and any expense feels like a failing, even when it puts no one at risk.
We can end up taking great care not to diminish our wealth while taking little care not to diminish our lives. We keep an uncomfortable piece of furniture because it still serves its purpose, turn down a trip because it is better to hold on to the money, and postpone a small pleasure to some future time when we will finally feel entitled to it. But who is supposed to grant us that permission, if we are always the ones withholding it?
The money we do not spend remains ours; the time we do not live, however, cannot be saved for later. This is not an invitation to use everything up. It is an invitation to consider both when we say we want to preserve something precious.
“Let Us Spend According to Our Income”
There is a saying I identify with: “My gracious lady, let us spend according to our income.” I like it because it presents neither waste nor self-denial as an absolute virtue. It asks us to look at reality and make choices in proportion to what that reality allows.
If our means are limited, it makes no sense to organise our lives as though they were abundant, relying on imaginary income or the idea that somehow everything will work out. But the reverse is also true: if our means increase, I see no reason to go on living as though every improvement were forbidden.
To me, that saying does not mean spending everything that comes in. Our budget also needs to cover commitments, the needs of those who live with us, and a reserve for the future. An option is genuinely available when we can afford it without neglecting everything else. A sense of proportion should come before a purchase, but it should not become an excuse to rule one out every time.
Balance, in short, is not the same figure for everyone. It is a relationship between means, responsibilities and desires. The same choice may be unwise at one point in life and entirely reasonable at another. I would like us to feel free to recognise that change, too.
Learning to Want What I Can Afford
I was born poor. Then, over the course of my life, I gradually came to know financial comfort. I did not feel the need to keep chasing things far beyond my means: within me, a way of wanting things developed around what I could realistically plan for.
I do not consider this a quality that makes me better than anyone else. It is simply the pattern I recognise in myself: when an opportunity genuinely becomes available to me, I begin to imagine what I might do with it. I can think about a cruise, a journey, replacing some furniture or a household appliance. I do not first have to convince myself that all of this is a weakness to overcome.
Not everything I could buy interests me, and not every wish has to become a purchase. But I like being able to choose. If an expense is affordable and brings a real improvement, I do not feel obliged to deny myself merely to see a higher balance in my account. For me, satisfaction also lies in finding a purpose for the opportunities I have worked to create.
This does not mean giving up ambition. It means preventing desire from becoming a machine that can only produce a sense of lacking something. I can appreciate what I have, build something more and, when I get there, allow myself to enjoy it. Otherwise, the finishing line keeps moving, and each achievement serves only to make the previous one seem inadequate.
Caution Has a Purpose
I understand the need to feel safe. Having known hardship can leave us with a caution that does not disappear as soon as our circumstances improve. A figure changing does not mean our relationship with it changes at the same moment. I would not want to ridicule that difficulty: I would like to ask when caution is protecting us and when it is holding us back.
Putting money aside for an unexpected expense, a future need or greater independence has a clear purpose. It means trying not to leave other people to bear the consequences of every difficulty we face. That is different from accumulating money without being able to say what it will be for, while rejecting every opportunity to use some of it.
No sum can eliminate all the uncertainty in life. We can prepare, act responsibly and avoid committing money we need to live on. But if we wait for a guarantee that we will never need anything again, the moment when we allow ourselves something may never arrive.
Saving should give us more freedom, not take away our permission to use it. This seems to me the question worth keeping: does the security I am building help me live, or does it merely allow me to keep postponing the life I want?
The Luxury of Still Being Able to Choose
For some things, having the money is not enough. We also need time, energy, company and desire. A postponed journey is not always the same journey simply moved to another date in the calendar. In the meantime, we may change, the people we wanted to travel with may change, and so may the meaning that journey held.
I am not thinking only of grand experiences. A more suitable piece of furniture can make a room where we spend many hours more pleasant. An appliance can ease a chore repeated every day. Improving life does not necessarily mean filling it with things: sometimes it means freeing it from an inconvenience we keep putting up with, without asking why any more.
Of course, replacing something simply because a newer model exists is a different choice. The point is not how much we spend, but what that spending gives us in return. If nothing appeals to us, we can leave everything as it is. But if we know a change would do us good and we can afford it, I would like us not to feel ashamed of wanting it.
The privilege I fear wasting is precisely this: still being in a position to decide. I can choose a destination, invite someone, imagine a different home, give a present and see the face of the person receiving it. I would not want to preserve every opportunity untouched until the day I am no longer the one who can make use of it.
A Duty Towards Life, Not an Obligation to Consume
Here my view becomes firmer: living as well as our means allow is, for me, not merely a right. It is a duty. Not a duty to someone selling something, to people watching us or to an image of success. It is a duty of care towards the life entrusted to us, including our own.
I do not mean an obligation to be cheerful, travel or buy things. For some people, living well means a walk, a book, a simple home, free time. And people with limited resources should not feel they are falling short because they cannot afford what others can pay for. Our means are not equal, and dignity is not measured by our standard of living.
The duty I feel is not to reject automatically what would make our lives better when circumstances allow it. To include ourselves among the people we look after. We are not merely workers, managers of assets or people who will one day leave an inheritance: we are people living right now.
This care cannot, however, disregard those close to us. If resources and plans are shared, decisions about spending also call for listening and agreement. I would not want to replace the selfishness of someone who forbids every expense with that of someone who satisfies every personal wish at other people's expense. The measure remains our whole life together, not one person's satisfaction alone.
Our Legacy Begins While We Are Here
Sometimes we think of an inheritance as something that will begin when we are gone. Yet we already leave a great deal while we are alive: the way we work, the peace of mind with which we meet an expense, the ability to share what we have, the freedom not to use money to control people.
Help given when it is needed and when we can offer it, a day together, an experience the family has wished for can have a value that does not appear when we add up the final figures. Not because wealth does not matter, but because the moment something arrives is part of its meaning. There are gifts whose effect I would like to witness myself.
I would like to leave my children some security, as far as my means will allow. But I would not want to teach them that the best life is the one we leave having spent as little as possible. I would rather they learned to distinguish a sensible sacrifice from one that has become a habit, and modest living from the fear of allowing themselves anything at all.
There is no contest between what we experience and what we leave behind. We can want both and seek an honest balance. The problem arises when one cancels out the other: when, in safeguarding tomorrow, we stop living today, or when, in using up today, we refuse to think about those who will come after us.
What I Would Like to Leave My Children
My children, I would like to leave all three of you this thought: money matters, but it is not the destination of your lives. It is a tool you can use to protect them, make them freer, help one another and, sometimes, bring them a little joy. Learn to look after it without becoming nothing more than its keepers.
Do not spend to prove something to someone. Do not put your future in debt to portray a life you cannot afford today. But do not assume that going without is always nobler than making a choice. If a wish is truly yours, reasonable and compatible with your commitments, you can take it seriously without feeling guilty.
I would like you to be able to say “I cannot afford it” without shame and “Now I can” without unease. Both are expressions of balance. The first helps you respect reality; the second allows you to recognise that your circumstances can improve, partly through your own efforts.
Do not postpone everything until a time when you feel completely secure. Be prudent, make plans, leave room for the unexpected; then remember to live as well. A simple life can be wonderfully full. What I would not want for you is a life of unnecessary deprivation, spent waiting for permission that never comes.
I would not want people to discover how much you had only when you could no longer do anything with it. I would rather see you make good use of your means while you can still choose, share and take pleasure in life. It is good to leave something for those who come after us; it is just as good for some of it to have helped you live well while you were here.
Papy