**A Mother’s Reflection**
I have an acquaintance, Margaret, who is 70 years old. Recently, she suffered a stroke and ended up in a hospital in one of the suburbs of Manchester. The exact reasons aren’t clear to me—perhaps her age, perhaps her unhealthy habits: poor diet, too little time outdoors, or maybe both.
Her son, Edward, has lived in another city, Birmingham, nearly a hundred miles away, for several years now. He has his own family—a wife and two children. When Margaret was taken to the hospital, her neighbors called an ambulance. Distant relatives heard what happened and now visit her regularly, bringing medicines and words of comfort. Margaret is slowly recovering, though she still can’t leave her bed.
Edward called only once. He sent money for her treatment—and that was the extent of his involvement. He didn’t visit, didn’t ask how his mother was doing. He had his own troubles, you see, urgent matters that needed his attention. He couldn’t be bothered with what was happening to her. *”What good would it do if I came?”* he said to one of the relatives. In his mind, money was all that was required of him.
The distant relatives, on the other hand, come to the hospital every day. They buy the necessary medicines, ask Margaret how she’s feeling, and check in with the doctors to understand her condition. Their kindness is the only thing sustaining her through these difficult days.
And so I find myself wondering: what are we, as mothers, doing wrong when our own children treat us this way? I’m certain that how children behave toward their parents reflects how they were raised. They watch us, absorb our words, our actions, our values. If we were distant or unfair, why should we be surprised when indifference is what 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 show it through your deeds. If a child sees their mother caring for her own mother, they’ll learn that lesson. But in Margaret’s case, it was different. Edward never saw her maintain a close bond with her own mother in her final years. Margaret turned away from her, and now her son is following the same path.
Life is like a boomerang—what we throw out eventually comes back to us. And in a strange way, there’s a sort of justice in that. Lying in her hospital bed, surrounded by strangers rather than her own son, Margaret is now reaping what she once sowed. It’s bitter, but perhaps it’s a chance for reflection—for her, and for all of us.
