Long ago, in the quiet lanes of Lancashire, there lived a woman named Margaret, now seventy winters old. A stroke had struck her down, leaving her confined to a hospital bed in the heart of Manchester. The precise cause remained unclear—perhaps her age, or perhaps years of poor habits: scant walks in the crisp English air, meals lacking nourishment, or mayhap both.
Her son, Edward, had long since moved away to Edinburgh, a fair distance from Manchester. He had a family of his own—a wife and two young children. When Margaret fell ill, it was the neighbours who summoned the physician. Distant kin, upon hearing the news, now visited her regularly, bearing tonics and kind words. Though she rallied slowly, Margaret remained too frail to rise from her bed.
Edward called but once. He sent a few pounds for her medicines and considered his duty done. He did not come, nor did he inquire after his mother’s condition. “I’ve troubles of my own,” he murmured to a cousin who pressed him. To his mind, coin was all that was owed.
Yet those same distant cousins came without fail, day after day. They procured the needed remedies, asked after Margaret’s comfort, and spoke at length with the physicians to grasp the full measure of her state. Their kindness was the only solace she had in those bleak hours.
And so I wonder: where do we mothers falter, that our children grow so indifferent? I am certain a child’s regard for his parents mirrors the lessons of his upbringing. They watch us, absorb our words, our deeds, our values. If we were distant or unkind, should we then be surprised when indifference is all we reap in return?
I hold this truth close: there are no wicked children or grandchildren—only parents who failed to set a proper example. To be a good parent, one must live it. Had Edward seen his mother tend to her own mother in her fading years, he might have learned differently. But Margaret, in her time, had turned away from the woman who bore her. Now her son walked the same path.
Life is a wheel—what we sow, we shall reap. There is a grim justice in it. There Margaret lies, amidst strangers, her own flesh and blood absent. She gathers now what she once sowed. A bitter draught, yet perhaps a chance for reflection—for her, and for us all.
