This op-ed column provides a platform for readers to share unique perspectives on the issues that matter most. It’s a space for thoughtful commentary from people like you, who bring unique insights and experiences to the conversation. Each article represents one personal window into a complex world.

 

Dealing with Difficult Parents

I was flipping through the Voice one morning, enjoying my coffee and a fresh dose of the Coffee Room, when I noticed The Letter. It was from a zeide, bemoaning the fact that his children are distant, ignoring him, and not inviting him over for Shabbos or Yom Tov. It was intriguing and thought-provoking, but it also brought a rush of my own experiences to the fore, and that compelled me to share my journey.

I don’t know the zeide who wrote the letter, and I don’t judge him. Yet, there are two sides to every story, and my perspective is the deeply personal one of a child dealing with difficult parents. While many people face this challenge, every situation is unique. And I know that my own path, guided by da’as Torah every step of the way, won’t necessarily work for everyone.

My journey began in a home where I thought it was normal for the burden of household upkeep to be placed squarely on my high-school-age shoulders. I envied my “spoiled” friends for their freedom to get together after school while I cooked, put my siblings to sleep, and cleaned the kitchen every night. But I was also a resilient, cheerful, capable teen, and I genuinely enjoyed the tasks of homemaking, which made things easier.

What began as my childhood role as a constant helper and crutch for my parents morphed into a more complicated dynamic when I became an adult, married, moved, and started a family of my own. After living in various small apartments, our current house is large, with a ground-level basement and private separate entrance—perfect for hosting my parents. But when any Yom Tov rolls around again and I extend the invitation, I gather every ounce of inner strength. I love my parents, and I know they love me and my family, but hosting them is extremely difficult.

Yom Tov is always hectic. I cook, clean, serve, and try to keep everything functioning. Yet my parents, who both have medical issues, expect me to wait on them. They refuse my offers of aides to make things easier. It’s “good chinuch for the children, especially in today’s spoiled generation.” Everything, from their regimen of pills to another dish of apple compote, is my responsibility.

My mother, who doesn’t have the emotional capacity to fill my needs, craves a close relationship. But her idea of closeness means endless hours of deep, private conversation, and spending quality alone time with my mother amid a busy houseful of people on Yom Tov is not always possible. “Come sit with all of us in the family room!” I coax. But instead of reaping nachas, watching her grandchildren and great-grandchildren interacting, she’s upset that we aren’t bonding.

I’ve been down the road of personal vulnerability before, and it never ends well. My mother’s advice is either detrimental or all about her. “If I’d been a better mother, this wouldn’t be happening to you!” she sighs, and I’m forced into the ridiculous position of comforting her for my issues. I’ve learned to listen to my parents’ complaints and smile sympathetically—but noncommittally. It’s the only way.

After one long Yom Tov, my husband treated the family to supper at one of our favorite local restaurants. I begged my parents to come, but they refused.

“Alright, there’s plenty of leftovers,” I said.

“Make me a plate,” my mother ordered.

I sent my family ahead (I could come later in our second car) and proceeded to think of everything. The seltzer was ice cold, the plate contained a choice of sweet sides, savory sides, meat, fresh salad, and a slice of dessert. I handed it to my mother with a smile, davening that this would be enough.

“Wow!” she exclaimed, genuinely impressed. I thanked Hashem that I could finally join the rest of my family.

I’m open and honest with my children, explaining that Bubby and Zeidy love them but can’t always express it. My older children understand, but my younger children sometimes struggle with the constant demands and criticism. If a daughter is going out with friends, the tired old “In my days…” is trotted out, filled with sharp diatribes against today’s spoiled kids. Licenses, birthday presents, and parties all elicit the same reaction.

The only way I survive each Yom Tov is by resigning myself to some discomfort (if I pull a muscle when I help my father sit, I sleep on a comfortable cushion), forcing a smile at all times (even if it’s robotic), and shutting down emotionally. I don’t take anything personally, and my understanding and supportive husband is always available to listen to me vent.

Everything I do is with guidance. Hashem placed people in my life who know me, my parents, and our situation, just so they can help me in the best way possible. I’m not looking to push my parents out, but to welcome them in a way that works for all of us.

I understand that most people won’t understand my struggle, and knowing it’s a zechus doesn’t take away from the situation. Every time I host, through every interaction with my parents, I hold on to my support system and ask Hashem to give me strength to overcome the inner resentment and the emunah to accept my challenge with love and devotion.

If you met me over Yom Tov and asked how I was doing, you might have gotten a smile and an eyeroll. Because the journey isn’t over, and my struggle is real. But I also daven that I should be able to work on myself and be there for my parents until 120 im yirtzeh Hashem.

 

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