You know, I was just thinking about this story from my daughter’s old teacher. She had this mum—older but perfectly capable, didn’t need constant care. Still, she’d ring her daughter all the time with the same line: “I don’t feel well, come straight away.” And it wasn’t a request—it was an order. Every time, it meant drop everything and run.
So the daughter did. Day or night, even in the middle of her workday. She’d go, because she was a good daughter, because she couldn’t say no. Then she’d drag herself back to school, teach her classes, go home—only for the next call to come. This went on for months, maybe years. Until her body just gave up.
First, she had a fall and broke her arm. Then, just as she was recovering, she fractured her leg. But even that didn’t stop her mum—the second the daughter was back on her feet, the calls started again.
That autumn, she finally returned to work. Back to her students, her routine. But before she could even catch her breath, her mum was ringing again: “I feel awful. Come now.”
And she went. Over and over. Until one day, she collapsed with pneumonia. She died in hospital. Young, bright, a teacher her whole class adored. No one could believe she was gone. The kids, the parents, her colleagues—they all cried. But her mum? I don’t think she ever really grasped that she’d lost the one person who’d always come running.
A month after the funeral, the old woman started up again—this time with her younger daughter. But this one took after her dad—stubborn, no-nonsense, not the type to jump on command.
The mum pushed anyway. Called, whined, guilt-tripped: “You don’t love me. No one cares. No one’ll come until I’m dead.” Finally, the younger daughter snapped.
“Emily was always there for you. Dropped everything, ran to your side. And where is she now? Buried. I want to live my life. So right now, I’m at work. I’ll come later. And if you’re really ill? Ring 999. If you can dial my number, you can dial theirs.”
Fifteen years on, the mum’s still alive. The ambulance has come—more than once. The doctors have helped. But no more late-night dashes, no more drama. She manages. Maybe calls a bit less often with the guilt trips.
Sometimes I think old age just flips a switch in some people. Instead of wanting their kids to live, they chain them down—not with actual chains, but with guilt. It’s not illness driving them; it’s spite, selfishness, loneliness. So they ring: “I’m not well, come now.” And then one day, their kids aren’t there at all.
If I ever get that old and need help, I hope I keep my head straight. And if I’m still lucid—pack me off to a care home. If I’m not? Even more reason. Let them live. Raise their kids, build their lives, take holidays.
I don’t want to be the kind of person who drags everyone down with fear of dying. Who blames everyone else so they don’t feel alone. Who can’t say “thank you” but can uproot a whole family with one phone call.
People will say, “How can you talk like that? She’s your mother.” But those people? They’ve never cared for a difficult old parent. Never sat in a dim kitchen at 3 AM, choking back tears. Never heard “I’m not well!” down the phone, knowing it’s just for attention.
It’s easy to judge them. Harder to understand.
I’m not saying cruelty’s okay. But kids have a right to live too. And sometimes, saving that life means not showing up.
