Letters Home

Christmas Day, 1991

While families back home enjoyed roast lamb and trifle dessert in the summer heat, Charl stood at the Johannesburg airport gate with a ticket to Europe in his hand.

He was twenty-one, the youngest of four. No one in his family had ever flown abroad before. His parents tried to be brave, but their concern lingered in the small pauses between sentences. Europe felt far away — not just in distance, but in language, in season, in everything familiar.

A school friend signed a rugby contract with the Saint Claude Rugby Club in France for the European winter season and invited him to come and visit. It sounded almost glamorous: a car, an apartment, a stipend and one meal a day. However, beneath the excitement, there was a quieter truth — no one in that small town, except the local bank manager, spoke English. The exceptional opportunity and sense of adventure far outweighed the challenges.

Travelling Before The Internet

Travelling before the Internet was very different. There were no smartphones then. No instant updates. No comforting blue ticks to confirm someone had read your message. Charl carried a Eurail pass, traveller’s cheques, and a large, folded paper map of Europe — the kind you opened with optimism and folded with frustration.

He landed in Frankfurt, his first stop on foreign soil. Standing under the bright airport lights, he searched for a payphone. He needed Deutsche Marks and Pfennigs before he could call his friend. It was long before the Euro and long before anything felt simple.

He called. No answer, and he tried again, but still nothing. For the first time, the adventure began to feel uncertain.

A Window and a Promise

With no other option, he boarded a train to Geneva. As the train moved south, snow brushed softly across the fields. Mountains rose in the distance, steady and unbothered. Lakes lay quiet under a pale winter sky.

He pressed his forehead against the cold window and watched. Something settled inside him then. Not a plan. Not even a clear dream. Just a quiet knowing, “One day, I will come back here.”

The Longest Hour

By the time he arrived in Geneva, it was nearly five in the afternoon. Darkness had already fallen, and the cold seemed sharper than before. He found another payphone and fed it Swiss Rappen coins. The phone on the other end just kept ringing.

The station felt enormous. Announcements echoed in French. Faces moved quickly around him. He stared at the departure board. The train to Saint Claude would leave soon. If he boarded it alone and arrived in a small town where no one spoke English, what then? Where would he sleep? What would he eat? How would he even begin?

He picked up his bag, then heard something familiar, “Charl!” Across the crowd stood his friend’s girlfriend, waving both arms. They had spent the entire day at the station, unsure which train he would arrive on, scanning each carriage as it emptied.

They encountered each other just as he was about to board the train by himself. His parents, who had been awake all night, received news from Charl that he was safe. Relief brings a warmth that words are insufficient to convey.

A Town That Stayed with Him

In the days that followed, they explored the region. One outing took them to Annecy — a lakeside town framed by mountains, canals winding through pastel buildings. The beauty of it left its mark. It was not only picturesque. It felt possible. He did not know then how life would unfold. But something had already taken root.

Cultivating What Was Planted

Back home, Charl invested in technological skills that were in global demand at the time. His work opened doors to travel, and Switzerland became a familiar destination — not only for its landscapes, but also for its food.

He and his colleague ate cheese fondue at a Swiss restaurant every other night during his two-week training session. At the end of the course, the Swiss participants gifted Charl and his colleague each a beautiful red fondue set.

Years later, long before I realised I would be part of this story, Switzerland appeared on the horizon again. When we were still dating, Charl invited me to a fondue dinner with Woollies’ fondue cheese on the rug in front of a crackling fire. The red pot stood between us. I remember him enjoying the melted cheese and bread. I didn’t realise then that I was already sitting inside a dream that had begun years earlier on a winter train.

When the Door Opens

Eventually, an opportunity arose. His employer had an investment in Switzerland. His boss asked, “Switzerland is looking for someone with your skills. Are you open to it — even with the language differences and the disruption to your family?”

Some decisions require careful thought. But the ones that align with something planted deep inside you — those are made with courage. We said yes.

The Red Fondue Pot

The red fondue pot made its way back to Switzerland. Some evenings, when the cheese melts slowly and snow rests quietly beyond the window, we think about that train ride in 1991.

Dreams do not always arrive loudly. Sometimes they begin quietly — as a young man looking out of a train window, not yet knowing he is looking at his future.

Regards

Emsia

The shiny silver Tesla glides to a stop in front of our apartment building, almost soundless. The doors lift open like something from the future, and my youngest son climbs out, backpack slung over one shoulder. He spots me and smiles — that half-boy, half-young-man smile — before thanking his friend’s mother for the ride.

The car pulls away in silence. I remain standing on the pavement longer than necessary. In that quiet moment, I realise something that both steadies and unsettles me: my three sons are growing up in different economic worlds.

I feel grateful. Grateful for opportunities I never imagined at his age. And uneasy. Because comfort quietly reshapes expectations. What feels normal to him would have felt extraordinary — even extravagant — to his older brothers.

As parents, we often ask: How do we prepare our children for the future? But the deeper question is: Which future?

Three Brothers, Different Economic Stories

Our time in Switzerland came through a work opportunity that shaped our family in unexpected ways. Two of our sons remained rooted in South African soil, navigating its complexity, resilience, and possibility. Our youngest grew up largely in Zurich — in a system marked by stability and a strong social safety net.

The same parents raised all three boys. Yet each carries a different internal story about money. The school we chose for our older sons in South Africa was a reflection of the country we wished to foster, one brimming with a variety of cultures, languages, and people. We aimed to impart an understanding of inequality, resilience, and shared responsibility. Our youngest completed most of his schooling in Zurich — a country marked by stability, efficiency, and a strong social safety net. Public transport runs on time. The Infrastructure works. Financial systems rarely feel fragile.

From the outside, one story may appear more privileged than another. But what is visible rarely tells the whole story. Growing up surrounded by visible wealth does not automatically make life easier. It can bring its own quiet pressures — comparison, belonging, and the awareness of what we can and cannot afford. Each of my sons carries challenges that the others do not. Each has been shaped in ways both beautiful and demanding. None of their stories is superior. Different soil grows different strengths.

Money is never just money. It also embodies memory, environment and history.

The Inheritance We Don’t See

Our understanding of money is shaped long before we earn it.

In my grandparents’ home, leftovers were never thrown away. Every scrap went into Tupperware, stacked neatly in the fridge. Waste felt almost immoral. My grandmother would frown if we layered butter, jam, and cheese on the same slice of bread. “That’s excessive,” she would say, genuinely perplexed.

She grew up in the long shadow of the Great Depression. It was a time when bank failures and hunger were lived realities. For her generation, frugality was a survival mechanism. Savings meant safety. Risk meant danger. Those habits became identity. Decades later, butter and jam together still felt like too much.

The Many Roles Money Plays

Money rarely means one thing.

For some, it is safety — the emergency fund checked repeatedly, the anxiety with every unexpected expense. A quiet vow: I will never feel that vulnerable again.

For others, it is freedom — the plane ticket bought without permission, the courage to leave a job, the ability to say yes to a new beginning. It whispers: You have options.

For some, it becomes identity — the car in the driveway, the postcode, the school fees paid with pride, quietly say: I have made it.

For others, it is connection — the meal paid for without hesitation, the sibling’s tuition covered quietly, the holiday planned for togetherness. It says, “We belong to one another.”

For some, it is enjoyment — experiences over possessions, spontaneity over spreadsheets, the belief that joy should not always be postponed.

And for many, it is a responsibility. After Apartheid, for many Black South Africans, a first salary did not belong only to the individual. It belonged to the family. To parents who sacrificed. To siblings who waited. Money circulated like a lifeline. It was hard-won freedom — and with freedom came obligation. These realities are not simply personal preferences about money. They are rooted in history, policy, exclusion, and resilience. Both our family’s cultural norms and the societal systems that either empowered or restricted us influence our financial experiences.

When Worlds Collide

When people with different money stories come together — in marriage, in friendship, in business — conflict is rarely about numbers.

I once saw this in a young couple. The wife grew up in a home where money meant safety and expenses were tracked. An emergency fund always existed. Stability was sacred. To her, money was the wall that kept chaos out. Her husband carried an entrepreneurial spirit. To him, money was something to use, invest and multiply. He saw opportunity where she saw risk.

When he spoke about starting a venture, she heard, “ We could lose everything”. When she suggested building more savings first, he heard, “You don’t believe in me”. Their arguments were never about spreadsheets. They were about fear and freedom. She was protecting stability. He was pursuing a possibility.

The money stories they lived out had been written long before their paths crossed. Until the stories were named, they fought symptoms rather than understanding roots.

Returning to the Pavement

The Tesla is long gone. My son walks toward me, talking about homework and weekend plans, unaware of the reflections unfolding in my mind. I smile and listen.

I do not want him to feel guilty for the opportunity. Nor blind to it. Perhaps preparing our children for the future is less about formulas and more about helping them understand the stories behind money — their own and others’. Money will shape them. But so will empathy. And if they can see that every financial decision carries a history of scarcity or stability, fear or freedom, then they will handle both wealth and lack with wisdom.

As we walk upstairs, I realise again: my sons are not just growing up in different economic worlds. They are growing up in different money stories. And so are we all.

Kind regards

Emsia