I’ve got a friend, Margaret, she’s 70. Recently, she had a stroke and ended up in a hospital in one of the suburbs of Manchester. I’m not sure exactly what caused it—maybe her age, maybe her unhealthy habits: poor diet, not enough walks outside, or a bit of both.
Her son, James, has been living in another city, Bristol, about 200 miles away from Manchester, for years now. He’s got his own family—a wife and two kids. When Margaret was rushed to the hospital, her neighbors called an ambulance. Distant relatives found out and now visit her regularly, bringing medicine and words of comfort. Margaret’s recovering slowly but still can’t get out of bed.
James only called once. He sent some money for her medication—and that was the end of his involvement. He didn’t come, didn’t even ask how his mother was doing. He’s got his own problems, apparently, things that need sorting out right away. He couldn’t care less about what’s happening to her. “What good would it do if I came?” he said to one of the relatives. In his mind, sending money is all that’s required of him.
Meanwhile, those distant relatives? They’re at the hospital every single day. They buy the meds she needs, ask Margaret how she’s feeling, and grill the doctors for updates so they know exactly what’s going on. Their kindness is the only thing keeping her going through this rough patch.
And it makes me wonder—what are we mothers doing wrong if our kids treat us this way? I’m sure how children act toward their parents is a reflection of how they were raised. They watch us, soak up our words, our actions, our values. If we’ve been cold or unfair, we shouldn’t be surprised when we get indifference in return.
I truly believe there’s no such thing as bad kids or grandkids—just parents who didn’t set the right example. If you want to be a good parent, you’ve got to show it through what you do. If a child sees their mother looking after her own mum, they’ll learn that lesson. But with Margaret, it was different. James never saw his mum stay in touch with her own mother in her final years. Margaret turned her back on her mum, and now her son’s doing the same.
Life’s like a boomerang—what goes around comes around. And in a strange way, there’s a kind of justice in that. There’s Margaret, lying in that hospital bed, surrounded by people who aren’t her own son, reaping what she sowed. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but maybe it’s a chance to think—for her and for the rest of us.
