“I Told Mrs. Harper I Was Tired and Wouldn’t Be Her Errand Girl Anymore”: I Also Said She Should Have Asked Her Daughter While She Was Here

It was a chilly November evening when I finally decided to confront Mrs. Harper. The past year had been exhausting. Ever since she fell ill, her requests for help had become a daily routine. At first, it was just picking up groceries or fetching her medication, but gradually, it turned into cooking her meals, cleaning her house, and even managing her bills.

Mrs. Harper’s daughter, Ellie, lived just an hour away in the bustling city. Despite her proximity, Ellie’s visits were rare. She had recently given birth to her second child, and her life, as she often explained, was overwhelmingly busy. Their small apartment barely had space for her growing family, let alone a room for her aging mother.

I understood Ellie’s situation, but as weeks turned into months, the weight of Mrs. Harper’s dependence on me grew heavier. I had my own life, a part-time job at the local library, and my aging parents to care for. Yet, every time Mrs. Harper called, I felt a tug at my heartstrings. She was alone, frail, and in need. How could I say no?

But that evening, as the wind howled outside and leaves rustled against my window, something in me snapped. The phone rang, and I knew it was her before I even picked up. “Could you come over, dear? I need help sorting out my medication and maybe heating up some dinner,” Mrs. Harper’s frail voice came through.

“I need to talk to you, Mrs. Harper,” I said, my voice firmer than I intended. There was a pause on the other end, a hesitation that signaled her surprise.

When I arrived, Mrs. Harper was sitting in her dimly lit living room, wrapped in a shawl. The room smelled faintly of medicine and loneliness. “What is it, dear?” she asked, her eyes searching mine.

“I’m tired, Mrs. Harper. I’m tired, and I can’t do this anymore,” I confessed, feeling a mix of relief and guilt as I spoke. “I think it’s time Ellie steps in. She should have asked her to help while she was here last week.”

Mrs. Harper’s face fell, and her hands trembled slightly. “I can’t ask more of Ellie,” she whispered. “She has her hands full with the children, and there’s no space at her place…”

“But there’s no space in my life either,” I interrupted, the harshness of my words surprising even me. “I have my job, my parents… I just can’t be your errand girl anymore.”

The room fell silent except for the ticking of the old clock on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Harper nodded slowly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I understand,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

I left her house that night feeling a complex mix of freedom and heartbreak. The decision was right for me, but the sorrow in Mrs. Harper’s eyes haunted me. As the days passed, her calls stopped. One cold morning, I learned from another neighbor that Mrs. Harper had been moved to a nursing home. Ellie had made the arrangements quietly.

The guilt never quite left me, and the silence from the house next door was a constant reminder of the complex web of duty, love, and personal boundaries.