The phone rang in the middle of the night, piercing the silence like a knife. I answered the phone sleepily, and all I could hear was my daughter’s voice, which was tight and brittle with pain. She told her mom, “I need to go to the ER right now.” But instead of getting out of bed, getting my keys, and going to her, I stayed still. I didn’t hear her comments as a call for help. Instead, they opened a door that I thought I had already shut.
I wasn’t in my room anymore at that moment. I was back in a hospital room years ago, screaming in pain after surgery and looking at the empty chair where my child should have been. I remembered how long I had waited for her, how much I needed her, and how she never came. Even though she did apologize in the end, with real tears in her eyes, the grief of her leaving had quietly sunk in my heart and hardened. I let the anguish speak for me at that moment.
I told her no. I informed her that her father couldn’t handle the chaos of waking up and taking care of three kids who were still asleep. I instructed her to either bring them with her or seek a neighbor for help. My comments, which were carefully wrapped in logic and reason, were really just layers of old anguish dressed up as common sense. I told her, “You’re being dramatic,” when she indicated she was in a lot of pain. I didn’t understand the irony at the time since I was the one who was making the past appear more important than it really was.
Then everything stopped. Not from her, but from my husband, who had been paying attention. He didn’t scream at me or tell me to go away. He just picked up the phone and told Hannah in a calm voice that he was on his way. That simple act—the plain declaration of love—made me feel worse than anything anyone could say. When he came back hours later, he appeared more sad than angry. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to.
By morning, the truth hurt more than any memory ever could. Because of difficulties during birthing, Hannah had to have surgery right away. She was in a lot of pain that worried her. She had been alone. Again. This time, though, it wasn’t her absence that made the event stand out; it was mine.
She won’t talk to me anymore. My husband keeps away from me, and even our son, who generally doesn’t get involved, called to tell me how wrong I was. It hurts that they aren’t saying anything, but it hurts even more to face the truth about why they aren’t.
I’ve been thinking about the night over and over for days, trying to figure out why I acted the way I did. I told myself it was about setting limits. About what will happen next. To get justice. But today, those justifications appear very small and even nasty. I see now that I didn’t fail because I didn’t drive her. I failed because my old anguish got in the way of my ability to care for others. I failed because I thought love should wait its turn and be earned back after mistakes. You can’t purchase or sell love, real love, especially a mother’s love.
It wasn’t a lesson in cruel love that night. I let someone I loved down when they needed me the most. The hospital fixed her body, but I harmed her in a way that she didn’t deserve. I can’t alter what I did, but I’ll remember this moment. The past can shape us, but it shouldn’t decide who we are when someone else needs us.
And if she ever wants to call again, no matter what time it is, I’ll be there. No questions, no judgments—just love.
