I’m a 58-year-old mother to my daughter Sarah, who’s 32 and just welcomed her third child. My husband, who’s 60, and I live about 30 minutes from her and her family.
My daughter called last night, sobbing. “Mom, please,” she begged, “I need to go to the hospital. Can you watch the kids?”
She was in agony after giving birth, but with 3 toddlers under 5, | panicked and turned her down. A chilling silence fell over the conversation. Then I offered a desperate solution, “Could you take the kids to the hospital with you? Or maybe… call a neighbor?”
Sarah’s voice cracked with desperation. “Mom, please,” she begged, “I’m in agony, and I don’t know what to do. The kids are asleep, and I can’t bear the thought of waking them up and dragging them to the ER.”
My frustration flared. “Sarah,” I said, “you know your father has a bad back. He can’t be chasing toddlers all night. What about your husband?” “He’s out of town for work, remember?” she replied, her voice strained. “I told you last week.”
My patience was wearing thin. “Well, that’s not our problem,” I retorted. “You chose to have three kids; you need to figure out how to manage them.”
A heavy silence fell before Sarah spoke again, her voice barely a whisper.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” she said, the hurt evident in her tone. “I’ve never asked you for anything like this before.” “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” I snapped, my irritation getting the better of me. “You’re a grown woman. Handle your own emergencies.”
