My mother is gravely ill, and I feel nothing about it. She’s earned it.
In our building lives an elderly woman named Dorothy. She’s always been a kind neighbour to everyone, ready to lend a hand or a listening ear. When my mother fell ill, Dorothy often came over to look after her while I was at work or tending to the kids. She nursed my mother, helped around the house, and thanks to her care, Mum began to recover.
But before long, Dorothy herself fell seriously ill. Her condition was far worse, and she had to be hospitalised. Until then, I’d assumed Dorothy was alone—that she had no children or family. Yet it turned out she had a large one: a son in a high-ranking position at a major firm, a daughter who ran a successful business, several grandchildren. They all lived comfortably, but in all the years we’d been neighbours, I’d never once seen any of them visit her.
When Dorothy was admitted to hospital, her daughter showed up to pack a few essentials. I ran into her in the hallway and offered to help, sharing what I’d learned from caring for my mother. Her reply stunned me:
“This isn’t my concern. I’ve brought what the doctor asked for—that’s all. She should be grateful I came at all.”
I was speechless. How could someone treat their own mother like that? Drop off a bag of belongings and leave without a shred of warmth.
Every evening after work, I visited Dorothy at the hospital, keeping her company, chatting about little things, trying to lift her spirits. Then I’d go home and lie awake, unable to shake the image of her daughter’s indifference.
When I told my mother, she said, “You don’t know what went on in that family. There might be a reason her children turned away.”
“But she’s still her mother. However you look at it.”
“If everyone thought like you, the world would be a kinder place.”
It gave me pause. She was right—we never know the full truth about other families, the hidden hurts, the old grudges. Still, I can’t fathom such coldness toward the person who brought you into this world.
