My husband, who’s 60, and I live about 30 minutes from her and her family.

My daughter called last night, sobbing. “Mom, please,” she begged, “I need to go to the hospital. Can you watch the kids?”

She was in agony after giving birth, but with 3 toddlers under 5, | panicked and turned her down.

A chilling silence fell over the conversation. Then I offered a desperate solution,

“Could you take the kids to the hospital with you? Or maybe… call a neighbor?”

Sarah’s voice cracked with desperation. “Mom, please,” she begged, “I’m in agony, and I don’t know what to do.

The kids are asleep, and I can’t bear the thought of waking them up and dragging them to the ER.”

My frustration flared. “Sarah,” I said, “you know your father has a bad back. He can’t be chasing toddlers all night.

What about your husband?” “He’s out of town for work, remember?” she replied, her voice strained. “I told you last week.”

My patience was wearing thin. “Well, that’s not our problem,” I retorted.

“You chose to have three kids; you need to figure out how to manage them.”

A heavy silence fell before Sarah spoke again, her voice barely a whisper.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” she said, the hurt evident in her tone. “I’ve never asked you for anything like this before.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” I snapped, my irritation getting the better of me. “You’re a grown woman. Handle your own emergencies.”

Just then, my husband, who had overheard the conversation, interjected.

“For heaven’s sake, let me talk to her,” he said, reaching for the phone. I was aghast.

“Don’t you dare offer to watch those kids!” I exclaimed. “Your back won’t survive it!”

To my surprise, he ignored me and spoke to Sarah, his voice filled with reassurance.

“Sweetheart, don’t worry,” he said. “I’m coming over right now. You get yourself to the hospital.”

Fury coursed through me. As soon as he hung up, I confronted him. “How could you do that?” I demanded. “You know you can’t handle those kids!”

He looked at me with disappointment. “How could you turn away our daughter when she needs us?” he asked, his voice heavy with sadness. “This isn’t like you at all.”

As he left to go to Sarah’s house, I was left alone with a maelstrom of anger and guilt swirling within me. The next morning, I learned that Sarah had undergone emergency surgery for postpartum complications. She’s recovering now, but she refuses to speak to me. My husband is giving me the cold shoulder, and even my son called to express his disappointment in my behavior.

Now, the weight of my actions is crashing down on me. I’m consumed with guilt and regret, wondering if I made a terrible mistake. Was I wrong?