To Share or Not to Share

How Family Giving Differs Across Cultures

What does family mean across cultures? In some societies, sharing within a family is an unspoken duty, woven into familial bonds. In others, it is a voluntary act, defined by individual choice. Through the lens of a simple lunchbox, this reflection explores the deep-rooted cultural contrasts in responsibility, love, and resource-sharing between East and West.

By Kate Xie | Published on: March 7, 2025

A Meal Not For Us

I walked out of the study after an afternoon of back-to-back meetings and found Cedric standing at the kitchen counter, making sandwiches. Confused, I asked, “Er, aren’t we eating out without the kids tonight?” watching him spread cream cheese onto bread with his usual military precision—urgent, rough, and vaguely irritated.

“No. This isn’t for us. It’s for the kids. They’re sleeping at my mom’s place tonight, remember? This is their breakfast and lunch for tomorrow.” He continued his rapid execution—efficient but entirely devoid of finesse—piling together sandwiches, roughly chopped apples, and grapes still dripping from the sink, all crammed into a single box with no compartments. It would be a soggy mess by the time the kids opened it tomorrow.

“Breakfast and lunch? Why can’t your mom do that? She doesn’t have bread and apples?” I found it hard to believe that a Dutch household would be missing two such basic pantry staples.

“She does. Maybe not enough. She asked me to bring some.” Click. The lid snapped shut.

I raised an eyebrow but swallowed my words. Climbing the stairs, I thought, Could be worse. Last time, we had to cook their dinner too.

Sharing: A Given or A Choice?

The thought lingered. If this were China, the idea of needing to pack food for the kids when dropping them off at my parents' house would be unthinkable. More likely, my parents would have stocked up on their favorite foods in advance, carefully planning an extravagant menu for dinner, breakfast, and lunch.

But comparisons here aren’t neutral or fair—I am biased. As a child of a collectivist culture, I can’t suppress my distaste when Cedric’s mother joins us for dinner and brings exactly one can of beer—for herself. Or when she bills us for accommodation expenses after taking the kids on vacation.

If it were my parents, it would be the other way around: we’d be handed cash when flying to China to visit them. My dad, despite preferring lighter domestic beer, would over-purchase Western brands just for Cedric.

Family Ties, Defined Differently

Learning to live with the fact that my Dutch in-laws don’t share leaves a bitter aftertaste. To snuff out the lingering sense of injustice, I actively search for slivers of affection.

Perhaps it’s the wooden dollhouse for Arla, occupying a sizable chunk of Cedric’s mother’s living room. Perhaps it’s the flood of second-hand children’s books filling the lower shelves of her bookcase. But still, the children can only visit her twice a month. And asking her to step in when Cedric is on a business trip or when I’m sick feels like applying for a mortgage.

Sacrifices That Speak Louder Than Words

In her eyes, Arla and Lena are our children—an indirect affiliation at best. In my parents’ eyes, the children are not just extensions of themselves but the very core of their existence.

“We’ll register Lena as the owner of the house in Amsterdam, okay? When he turns 18,” my dad announced matter-of-factly as we stepped out of the notary’s office, where he had just purchased the house we currently live in.

“Please tell Lena that his Chinese grandpa is starting to save up now. If he wants to go to a law school that isn’t government-subsidized, he can!” my dad told me excitedly over the phone after hearing that Lena wanted to study law.

“Dad, but… maybe we’ll be back in China by then. You and Mom might need us in a few years.” I wanted to set expectations straight. My mom had already been diagnosed with dementia, scoring zero in short-term memory and zero in orientation.

“No. We’ll manage. I will take care of your mom. You take care of the children there. We will manage,” he said solemnly.

Love, Without Sharing

The contrast stings. The sheer sacrifices they are making for the children—their willingness to share everything they have, from assets to savings to their own mental well-being—versus this, right here, in this kitchen, where the kids have to bring their own breakfast and lunch to Cedric’s mother so they won’t go hungry.

Love and emotional bonds may express themselves differently here. Maybe they show up in ways I haven’t fully understood yet.

But sharing, it seems, is not one of them.

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