**Diary Entry**
I have an acquaintance named Margaret, a woman of seventy. Recently, she suffered a stroke and was admitted to a hospital in one of Birmingham’s districts. I can’t say for certain what caused it—whether age, an unhealthy lifestyle, poor diet, lack of fresh air, or perhaps all of the above.
Her son, James, has lived in another city, Manchester, for several years, nearly two hundred miles away. He has his own family—a wife and two children. When Margaret fell ill, neighbours called the ambulance. Distant relatives heard the news and now visit her regularly, bringing medicine and words of comfort. She is slowly recovering but still can’t leave her bed.
James rang only once. He transferred some money for her treatment—that was the extent of his involvement. He didn’t visit, didn’t ask how his mother was faring. He has his own pressing matters, you see, things that demand immediate attention. What happens to his mother is no concern of his. “What good would it do if I came?” he muttered to one of the relatives. In his mind, money was all she needed.
Yet those distant relatives come to the hospital daily. They buy the necessary prescriptions, ask Margaret how she’s feeling, and consult the doctors to understand her condition properly. Their kindness is the only thing keeping her going through this difficult time.
And so, I find myself wondering—what do we, as mothers, do wrong when our children treat us this way? I’m certain a child’s behaviour towards their parents reflects how they were raised. They watch us, absorb our words, actions, even our values. If we were distant or unfair, we shouldn’t be surprised when indifference is all we receive in return.
I firmly believe there are no bad children or grandchildren—only parents who failed to set the right example. To be a good parent, you must lead by action. If a child saw their mother caring for her own mother, they’d learn that lesson well. But in Margaret’s case, it was different. James never saw her visit or even call her own mother in her final years. Margaret turned away from her, and now her son follows that same path.
Life is a boomerang—what we throw out comes back to us. And in a strange way, that feels just. Here lies Margaret, surrounded by strangers in a hospital bed, not her own son, reaping what she once sowed. It’s bitter, but perhaps it’s a chance—for her and for all of us—to reflect.
