I was standing there, keys vibrating softly against the granite counter, watching her try to hide the uneaten spinach underneath the napkin. My breath hitched. That move-that subtle, deliberate shift of a small inconvenience from the plate to a temporary hiding spot-I hadn’t seen that particular sleight of hand since 1997. And the words came out of me, a low, steady drone, entirely unsolicited by my conscious thought: “Did you drink any water today, Mom? That’s barely half the glass. You know what Dr. Patel said about dehydration.”
The irony hit me so hard it felt like I’d walked straight into a glass door-a sudden, sharp physical shock followed by a dull, throbbing awareness of where I actually was. I was using the exact same cadence she had used with me when I was seven, protesting against a world that insisted I wear my coat and eat things that were green. Now, she was the rebellious one, refusing the coat of self-care. If I wasn’t already exhausted, the dizziness of the reversal would have sent me to the floor.
The Illusion of Simple Swap
People talk about “parenting your parent,” and I grit my teeth every single time I hear that phrase. It’s too neat. It’s too simple. It implies a clean transition, a linear exchange of the mantle of responsibility.
