Between His Startup Dream and My Fears, We Built Something Better

Between His Startup Dream and My Fears, We Built Something Better

I sat at our oak dining table in our cozy Amsterdam apartment, the smell of roasted chicken filling the air. My youngest son, Lena, was home from his first year at Utrecht University, his eyes bright with a restless energy I hadn’t seen before. He’s always been the dreamer, unlike his older brother, Markus, who’s settled with a family in Rotterdam. Over dinner, Lena casually mentioned his part-time job at an electronics startup in the city, earning a modest €1,200 a month. “If I stick with it, they might hire me full-time after graduation,” he said, fork hovering mid-air. I smiled, proud but cautious, hoping he’d focus on his studies.

Then came the bombshell. “Mum, I need to borrow €5,000,” Lena blurted, his voice steady but urgent. My husband, Pieter, raised an eyebrow, and I nearly choked on my wine. “For what?” I asked. He leaned forward, explaining he wanted to start his own tech venture, inspired by his job. €5,000 wasn’t pocket change for us, and at 19, Lena was still so young. I told him to show us a solid business plan first. His face fell, a flicker of frustration in his eyes.

He didn’t bring it up again that night, but I could tell something had shifted. Lena’s dreams were bigger than our dining room, and I wasn’t sure how to guide him without clipping his wings. Over the next few months, Lena threw himself into his job, his ambition growing but his patience thinning. He began to see university as a detour, his focus shifting entirely to proving he could succeed on his own terms.

By spring, Lena’s enthusiasm for his job had taken over. He’d rush out of our Amsterdam apartment before dawn, returning late, barely mentioning his classes. Pieter and I grew worried—his grades were slipping, and he seemed to live for the startup’s fast-paced world. One rainy evening in April, I confronted him in our living room, the canal outside reflecting streetlights. “Lena, you can’t let work derail your degree,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt. He shrugged, sprawled on the couch in his jeans and hoodie. “Mum, I’m learning more at work than in lectures.” I didn’t know how to argue with that.

Then came the call from Markus, who was visiting from Rotterdam. “Mum, Lena asked to borrow €5,000 from me,” he said over the phone, his tone heavy. My heart sank. Apparently, Lena had pitched his tech idea again, but Markus, ever practical, advised him to gain experience first. “Startups need more than passion,” Markus had told him. Lena, stubborn as ever, didn’t push further but grew distant. He stopped joining us for Sunday brunches, his texts short and vague.

Weeks later, I noticed Lena’s bike was gone before I woke up, his room a mess of energy drink cans and scribbled notes. Worried, I called his friend Sophie, who studied with him at Utrecht. “He’s taken a gap year, Mrs. V,” she said hesitantly. “He’s working multiple jobs to save up.” I froze, the phone heavy in my hand. A gap year? Without telling us? I felt betrayed, but more than that, I was terrified for him.

That night, I waited up, the clock ticking past midnight. When Lena finally walked in, soaked from the rain, I didn’t yell. “Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked, my voice cracking. He looked at me, exhausted but defiant. “If you and Dad won’t back my dream, I’ll do it myself. School can wait.” His words hit like a storm, and I realized how deeply he believed in his path, even if it scared me. In the months that followed, Lena’s determination hardened, but so did his isolation. He was learning resilience, but I feared he was losing sight of balance, driven by a need to prove himself.

Summer arrived, and Lena was a ghost in our home, working long hours at a warehouse in Utrecht and freelancing for tech clients. I missed our old chats, the way he’d ramble about ideas over coffee. One evening, I drove to a quiet park near Haarlem, where Lena agreed to meet me. The sun was setting, casting golden light over the tulip fields, and we sat on a bench, the air thick with unspoken tension. “Lena, talk to me,” I said, my hands clasped tightly. “Why shut us out?”

He sighed, kicking at the gravel. “I thought you didn’t believe in me,” he admitted, his voice low. “I want to build something real, Mum, not just get a degree for a paycheck.” I saw the fire in his eyes, but also the weight of his choices. I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. “We believe in you, but we’re scared you’re rushing into something without a safety net. What if you could do both—work on your dream and finish your degree?”

To my surprise, he didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded slowly, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. We talked for hours, the park emptying around us. I offered to lend him €3,000—not the full €5,000, but enough to start small—on the condition he reenroll part-time at university. “It’s not about doubting you,” I said. “It’s about giving you options.” He looked at me, a flicker of relief in his eyes, and agreed.

Back home, Lena started sketching out a new plan, balancing his studies and a scaled-down version of his tech venture. He wasn’t the same carefree kid anymore, but I saw a new maturity in him, a willingness to compromise. For the first time in months, I felt hope that we were on the same team. Over the next year, Lena learned paciencia, finding strength in compromise. He began to see his parents as allies, not obstacles, his ambition tempered by a newfound respect for balance.

It’s been a year since that park bench talk, and Lena’s back at Utrecht University, studying part-time while running a small online tech shop from our Amsterdam garage. The €3,000 I lent him bought basic equipment, and he’s already breaking even, his face lighting up when he talks about his first customers. We’re closer now, sharing coffee in the mornings as he updates me on his progress. “I’m glad you pushed me to keep studying,” he admitted once, a rare moment of vulnerability.

Watching Lena grow has taught me something, too. Parenting isn’t about control—it’s about trust, even when it’s scary. He’s still got big dreams, but now he’s building them with a steadier hand. I’m proud, but part of me wonders: did I do the right thing, balancing support with boundaries, or should I have given him the full €5,000 to chase his vision?

I’d love to hear from others. How do you support your kids’ dreams without losing sight of practicality? Share your stories—I could use the wisdom as Lena and I navigate this new chapter together.