The phone rang at an ungodly hour, my daughter’s voice tight with pain. “Mom, I need to get to the ER now.” But instead of springing into action, I froze. Memories of my own hospital recovery flashed through my mind – the empty chair where Hannah should have been. Though years had passed since her apology, the hurt still colored my response.
I told her no. My husband couldn’t possibly manage three sleeping children at his age. She could wake them and take them along or call a neighbor, I reasoned. When she pleaded about the severity of her pain, I coldly reminded her of how she’d once left me to cope alone. “You’re being dramatic,” I said, not realizing the irony as I dramatized old grievances.
My husband’s quiet intervention shamed me. Without argument, he simply told Hannah he was coming. His disappointed look afterward spoke volumes. By morning, we learned she’d undergone emergency surgery for childbirth complications. Now she won’t speak to me, my husband keeps his distance, and even our son called to say how wrong I was.
The rationalizations I clung to that night – about fairness and practicality – now seem pitiful. In refusing to help, I wasn’t teaching my daughter a lesson about responsibility. I was failing the fundamental test of unconditional love. The hospital treated her physical wounds, but I’m the one who inflicted deeper hurt when she needed me most.