Years ago, my daughter’s schoolteacher had an elderly mother—a woman perfectly capable, not in need of constant care. Yet she had grown accustomed to calling her daughter regularly with the same urgent plea: *”I don’t feel right, come at once.”* Those words were a command, and each time they meant the same thing: drop everything and rush to her side.
The daughter went, no matter the hour—deep in the night, at dawn, even in the middle of the school day. She went because she was a good daughter, because she felt she had no choice. Then she’d return to work, teach her classes, go home—only to be summoned again. This went on for months, perhaps years. Until her body gave out.
First, an accident—she fell and broke her arm. Then, barely recovered, another injury, this time her leg. Still, the mother wouldn’t relent. The moment her daughter showed any sign of strength, the calls resumed.
By autumn, she was back at work, standing before her pupils, trying to reclaim her life. But before she could fully heal, her mother’s voice crackled through the phone once more: *”I’m unwell. Come now.”*
And so she went. Again and again. Until the day she collapsed with pneumonia. She died in hospital—young, bright, a teacher adored by her entire class. No one could believe she was gone. Children, parents, colleagues—all wept. Only the mother, it seemed, failed to grasp she had lost the one person who had always answered her call.
A mere month after the funeral, the old woman turned to her younger daughter. This one, unlike her sister, took after her father—steadfast, unyielding, with a spine of steel. She didn’t come running at every summons.
But the mother pressed. She called, she lamented, she accused: *”You don’t love me. No one cares if I live or die. No one will come until I’m in my grave.”* Finally, the younger daughter snapped.
*”Emily was always there for you. She saved you. Wiped your tears, carried your shopping, fetched your medicines. And where is she now? Buried. I want to live. So right now, I’m at work. I’ll come later. If you’re truly ill—ring for an ambulance. If you can dial my number, you can dial 999.”*
Fifteen years have passed since then. The mother still lives. Ambulances have come—more than once. Doctors have tended to her. But without midnight vigils from a daughter, without the theatrics and demands. She manages. As best she can. Only now, perhaps, the accusatory calls come less often.
Sometimes I think old age strips certain people of restraint. Instead of cherishing their children, letting them live, they leash them—not with chains of iron, but of guilt. It isn’t illness that drives them, but spite, whim, selfishness. So they ring: *”I’m unwell, come at once.”* And then, one day, the children are gone.
If I ever live to great age and need help, I pray I keep my wits. And if I still understand the world, let them send me to a care home. If I don’t—all the more reason. Let them live their lives. Raise their children, build their homes, visit the seaside.
I won’t be the sort who, in fear of death, destroys those closest to me. Who makes everyone guilty rather than face loneliness. Who never says *”thank you,”* yet upends a household with one phone call.
Some will say: *”How can you speak this way? She’s your mother.”* But those who say it have never nursed an ailing elder. Never sat in a dim kitchen past midnight, swallowing tears of exhaustion. Never heard *”I’m unwell!”* screeched down the line, knowing it’s for attention, not true need.
Such people are easy to judge. Harder to understand.
I don’t excuse cruelty. But children, too, have a right to live. And sometimes, to save that life—you must refuse to come.
