In the event of a catastrophe, I had always thought that my parents would be there to support me. While it’s true that they occasionally acted in a self-centered manner, focusing more on their next vacation than on family dinners, I had the impression that they would step up when the situation demanded it. A Tuesday afternoon in the sterile white corridors of St. Vincent’s Hospital was the day that this conviction was shattered apart.
When I was folding laundry, I felt a strong pain in my lower abdomen. This was the beginning of the problem. My initial reaction was to dismiss it as a little matter, possibly a case of food poisoning. But within an hour, I was so weak that I could hardly stand. On account of the fact that my husband, Aaron, was away on a business trip, I was left at home by myself with our twin children, Lucas and Sophie, who are three years old.
The agony reached an intolerable level. My doctor advised me to go to the emergency room as soon as possible since I was suspected of having appendicitis, which may have ruptured.
I was overcome with fear. Having surgery meant that I would be under anesthesia for a number of hours, possibly even overnight. I immediately thought about my children. I required someone to keep an eye on them, someone I could rely on. It was only fifteen minutes away from where my parents lived. They exclaimed over and over again how “lucky” they were to have grandchildren in close proximity to them. They adored the twins.
As another wave of misery swept over me, I contacted my mother while clenching my phone tightly in my sweaty palms.
I said into my mother’s ear, “Mom, I’m at home, but I have to go to the hospital.” It’s probably my appendix, I think. Are you able to come and watch the children, please?
Following a brief pause, a sigh was heard. “Oh, my, my darling… Nothing is going to go well tonight. My father and I are going to see Elton John, and we have tickets. Your sister and I have been working together on this for a number of months.
At first, my mind was unable to comprehend what she had said. The phrase “Mom, I might need surgery”
“Yes, I am aware of that, but this is the final tour, and these tickets were not inexpensive,” she stated, her tone of voice eerily calm. “Perhaps you could give a call to one of your people or look into hiring someone.”
Your arrival is only fifteen minutes away! My voice was trembling.
It seemed as though I was the one who was being unreasonable, as she breathed once again. “It is imperative that you comprehend that whenever there is a minor issue, we cannot simply abandon everything. You have been relying on us quite a bit as of late. This is… turning into a burden.”
Is a hardship.
Before I could say something that I would later come to regret, I hung up the phone.
While I was in a state of anguish and adrenaline, I called three of my friends, but none of them were able to arrive in time. I was unable to make a decision. I dialed the number of an emergency nanny service that I had utilized in the past, provided them with my door code, and disclosed that I would leave funds for a taxi.
I had been curled up on the floor at the front entrance by the time the nanny arrived, and I was only just beginning to become conscious. After assisting me in getting into her vehicle, she drove me to the hospital. Before I was under the influence of the anesthesia, the last thing I remember is a nurse asking my family if they were aware that I was present.
“They know,” I mumbled to myself. Simply put, they had other things in mind.
Because of the rupture in my appendix, the surgery was an emergency. After the fact, the surgeon informed me that if I had delayed an additional hour, the situation might have been far more dire.
I was sleepy and in pain when I woke up, and my phone was full of missed calls from Aaron, who was apparently on a flight back to the United States already. Not a single communication came from either of my parents. None of them.
I was sleeping in a dimly lit hospital room that night, and I could hear the faint beeping of machinery all around me. Something within me became more rigid. Over the course of several years, I came to the realization that I had been exceedingly kind to my family. I had provided them with financial assistance during a difficult year for my father’s business, I had paid for my sister’s “temporary” move-in that lasted for eight months, and I had paid my parents’ credit card bill on multiple occasions when they claimed that they had “unexpected expenses.”
I had convinced myself that it was something that families did. However, families did not abandon you in the event of a medical emergency because they were attending a performance of their own. Families did not refer to you as a burden when you were experiencing discomfort.
The following morning, while I was lying in the hospital bed, I called my bank and froze the joint account that I had previously allowed my parents to use for “emergencies.” After removing them from their position as guardians of my children, I contacted my solicitor to update my will. I then sent a brief note to my parents via text messaging:
“From this point forward, I will not be offering any financial assistance. Do not get in touch with me again, please. It is imperative that I safeguard both myself and my children.
I did not receive a response.
Aaron’s reaction upon his return was one of rage. Not only at what they had accomplished, but also at the years of financial assistance that I had provided for them without informing him of the actual amount that I had provided.
As he paced around our bedroom, dad said, “They’ve been dragging you down to your knees, Liv.” “And for what purpose? In order for them to turn around and accuse you of being a nuisance? This is about to end.”
Indeed, it did. I silenced them on social media, blocked their phone numbers, and told my sister that she should stop attempting to “explain their side” unless she wanted to be included in the same cutoff. I also told her that she should silence them.
“I felt lighter for the first time in years,” I said to myself. But it’s a lighter mood.
I was finally back at home, recuperating, and gradually resuming my normal routine with the children after a period of two weeks. During the early hours of Saturday morning, Aaron had accompanied Lucas and Sophie to the park so that I could get some rest.
The knock was heard at that same moment.
Indeed, it was not hesitant. It was a few fast raps, followed by a pause, and then three more. It was sharp and forceful. I took a quick look through the window.
On the porch, my parents were standing.
My dad appeared to be in a state of discomfort, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. There was something that my mother was holding, and it appeared to be a bag of takeaway.
I gave some thought to not responding. Curiosity, or perhaps the need to find a conclusion, was what ultimately pushed me to the door. The doorway was blocked by my body, and I opened it just enough to see through it.
My mother started off by saying, “Olivia,” with a tone that was sweet yet constrained. “We need to talk.”
In a tone that was consistent throughout, I stated, “I don’t think we do.”
There was a shift in my father’s weight. Because of what took place, we are filled with dread. Just now… we were in possession of these tickets, and your sister—”
It was me that interrupted him. “Quit. ” Not a single excuse will do. You came in handy. Your selection was a concert.
As she looked at me, my mother’s eyes went to my face, looking for a weakness in my will. We were expecting that you would comprehend by this point. At first, we thought that perhaps… we could get past this.
The sound of my laughter was brief and acrid. “Should we move past it? It was not you who came to see me in the hospital. You did not dial my number to see whether I was still alive. The only reason you are present at this moment is because the money has been taken away.
Her lips became more tense. “Liv, we are having a hard time. You are aware that your father’s pension only just about pays the mortgage. We contemplated—”
I retorted in a stern tone, “You have the wrong idea.” It is no longer true that I am your safety net. And I will not allow my children to grow up believing that this is the way that members of the family interact with one another.
My dad’s jaw was clenched tightly. A flush appeared on my mother’s cheeks. I had a fleeting impression that they may put up a more vigorous resistance. In contrast, she decided to place the takeaway bag on the front step instead.
With a cool demeanor, she stated, “Well, we tried.”
They went away after turning around.
It was not me who called after them. No, I did not cry. After closing and locking the door, I went away without taking a glance inside the bag while I was gone.
After they left, life became more peaceful. Fewer late-night calls seeking for “just a little help” and fewer instances of turmoil on the job. Because of this, I was able to devote my attention to my own small family, which was the only one that was present when it was necessary.
I was under the impression that severing links would be more painful. On the other hand, whenever I recalled lying in that hospital bed and looked at the empty space on the screen of my phone where their names should have been, I knew that I had made the right decision.
There are instances when blood is not the only factor that defines family. What matters is who is there for you when you require them the most. And when my parents did not, I discovered that I could live without them; I became more powerful, lighter, and my freedom was ultimately attained.