**”After the Stroke, the Son Does Not Visit His Mother in the Hospital”: How Children Treat Their Parents Reflects Their Upbringing**
I have an acquaintance, Margaret, who is 70 years old. Recently, she suffered a stroke and found herself in a hospital in one of the boroughs of Sheffield. The exact reasons remain unclear—perhaps her age, perhaps an unhealthy lifestyle: poor diet, too few walks in the fresh air, or maybe both.
Her son, Oliver, has lived in another city for several years—Edinburgh, nearly 500 miles from Sheffield. He has his own family now, a wife and two children. When Margaret was taken to the hospital, it was the neighbours who called the ambulance. Distant relatives heard what had happened and now visit her, bringing medicine and words of comfort. Margaret is slowly recovering, though she still cannot leave her bed.
Oliver called only once. He transferred some money for the medicine—and that was the extent of his involvement. He did not come. He did not ask how his mother was doing. He had his own troubles, you see, urgent matters demanding his attention. Why should he care what happened to her? “What good would my visit do?” he muttered to one of the relatives. To him, the money was all that was required.
Yet the distant relatives come to the hospital every day. They buy the necessary prescriptions, ask after Margaret’s health, press the doctors for details—anything to understand how she fares. Their kindness is the only thing keeping her afloat in these difficult days.
And so I find myself wondering: what do we, as mothers, do wrong, when our children treat us this way? I am certain that a child’s treatment of their parents mirrors how they were raised. They watch us, absorb our words, our actions, our values. If we were cold or unjust, we should not be surprised when indifference is all we receive in return.
I am convinced there are no bad children or grandchildren—only parents who failed to set the right example. To be a good parent, you must prove it through your deeds. If a child sees their mother caring for her own mother, they will learn the lesson. But in Margaret’s case, it was different. Oliver never saw his mother keep in touch with her own mother in her final years. Margaret had turned away long ago, and now her son walks the same path.
Life is a boomerang—what we throw into the world returns to us. And strange as it may seem, there is a justice in that. Now Margaret lies in that hospital bed, surrounded by strangers, not her own son, reaping what she once sowed. It is bitter, but perhaps it is also a chance—for her, for all of us—to pause and reflect.
