From Candles to Keys: How Love—and a Plan—Bought My Mom a Home

I didn’t buy this house because I’m rich.

I bought it because I ran out of ways to say thank you.

For years, all I could afford were candles.

She deserved exotic vacations and luxury cars, but I gave what I had—candles.

Eventually, I even learned to make them myself, hoping that effort could somehow fill the gap of the lacking lavish air of it all.

She never made me feel small for it.

She always smiled—an honest attempt to convince me it was enough.

A three-time cancer survivor, a single mother—and yet she lit every candle like it was a trophy.

Held every melt like it had been flown in from Paris.

But I knew.

I knew it wasn’t what she deserved.

How do you repay someone who spent years fighting just to have more time with you?

When I was a child, she cut off her hair and bought new clothes, so I wouldn’t see the battle she was fighting.

As a teen, she smiled brighter and cleaned constantly—doing more so I wouldn’t worry about the war she was waging.

And when I became an adult, she hid it entirely.

But I found out.

When cancer returned that third time, I did what she always did: I made something.

A plan.

I kept thinking about how she never asked for more than I could give—even when it was just candles.

But I was capable of more.

I just hadn’t realized it until I opened YNAB.

Not for the first time, but for the first time with her at the forefront of my mind.

When I created a category for her, everything changed.

It wasn’t just a budget anymore.

It was a mission.

I worked two jobs.

Took every extra hour I could.

Skipped vacations and nights out.

I didn’t know anything about “spendfulness,” but I knew this: my money had a purpose.

And it could serve no greater one than making my mom happy.

YNAB had guides written by people who once could only afford to give candles, too.

Planners. Idealists. Dreamers.

People like me.

And like them, I built the path to the life I wanted.

I turned every “maybe someday” into a scheduled contribution.

Set a target that put her first.

Every time I was tempted to splurge, I remembered her hands—

How they darkened during her last round of chemo.

How I was the one who was scared, and she still reassured me there was nothing to worry about.

Two years passed.

The fund grew.

Not fast.

Not flashy.

But real.

Then came the day.

I found a small house in the neighborhood she adored.

Windowsills missing.

A porch begging for wind chimes.

A big backyard where she could play with her grandchildren—just like she once played with me.

It wasn’t a mansion.

But it had warmth.

And peace.

When I brought her to see it, she stood frozen on the porch.

“You did this?” she whispered.

I said, “No, Mom. We did.”

Because it was her strength that taught me how to endure.

Her love that taught me how to give.

Every moment she chose to fight instead of give up—

That was the down payment.

And now, this house is hers.

Not because I’m rich.

But because love saves—even if it’s just pennies at a time.

This isn’t a repayment.

There’s no math for that.

This is just the first gift that even begins to feel worthy.

A front door she can call her own.

A key that says:

You’re seen.

You’re the reason I am who I am.

It’s never “just” money. Give your dollars purpose with YNAB—it’s free for 34 days.