“Funny how you only need family when you’re the one who needs help,” she said. “That sounds like YOUR responsibility, not mine. I’m not a free nursing home.”
The words hit harder than any diagnosis.
I tried to remind her who I was. “I’m your mother,” I said. “Not a stranger.”
There was a pause. Then she answered quietly, “And I was your daughter when I asked for help.”
The line went dead.
Now I sit alone in this house filled with memories and questions. I replay that moment in the kitchen over and over, wishing I had chosen compassion instead of pride. I tell myself I was setting boundaries. That I had a right to my own life.
But late at night, when my hands tremble and the silence presses in, I wonder if I mistook control for strength.
Do I deserve to be treated this harshly because I refused to raise her child? Or did I teach her exactly how to walk away—by showing her how easily I could do the same?
And now that I finally understand the cost… is it already too late to ask for forgiveness?
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
