"So, you're punishing an old woman while she's hurt." "No, I'm protecting myself while you're hurt. Those are two very different things." She called me a cold, bitter person. I told her I genuinely hoped she recovered quickly and then I ended the call.
I sat heavily on the couch afterward and stared blankly at the wall for 20 minutes. Marcus didn't ask what happened until the kids were busy watching a movie in the other room. Then he came over, sat beside me, took my hand, and waited. I told him every word of the conversation.
He looked at me carefully, and asked, "Do you want to go over there and help her?" That question surprised me because Marcus had every logical reason to demand. I say, "Absolutely not. Do you think I should?" I asked him.
He squeezed my hand. "I think if you want to help her because you'll personally feel better knowing you did the right thing, that's one thing. If you want to help her because you're terrified she'll call you a bad daughter and guilt trip you, that's another thing entirely." Annoyingly, perfectly reasonable man.
I agonized over it for the rest of the evening. I vividly imagined getting in my car, driving over to her house, carrying heavy grocery bags inside, changing her bed sheets, and driving her to the doctor. I knew exactly down to the minute how the script would play out. For the first two days, she would be tearfully grateful.
Then the power dynamic would subtly shift. She'd complain about the brand of bread I bought. She'd casually mention how much better Chloe was at folding laundry.
She'd start criticizing my boundaries again. She'd call Aunt Susan and brag about how she had finally gotten me to come around and behave. And I would be right back inside the grinding gears of the same toxic machine.
I didn't go. I did text Aunt Susan who lived 15 minutes away and told her mom had fallen just in case mom hadn't reached out to her yet. I also paid for a premium Instacart grocery delivery to be sent to mom's house. And I texted her the contact number for a highly rated local senior transportation service that a nurse at my clinic had used for her own parents. That was the exact amount of help I could safely give without giving pieces of my soul away.
Three days later, my mother left me a long voicemail. Her voice was icy and calm, which somehow made the message far worse than if she had been screaming. She said she had never ever imagined a daughter of hers could leave her alone and suffering when she was so vulnerable. She said she truly hoped I could sleep at night and live with that selfish choice.