Filial, But Not Obedient

My name is Wang Xiuying, and I am sixty-eight years old.

You might find it hard to believe, but at my age, most women are grandmothers being doted on by their families. Yet, here I am, still serving my mother—the "Old Lady." She’s ninety-four this year and has been bedridden for three years.

Three years ago, she could still shuffle a few steps with a cane. Then she took a fall and shattered her hip. The doctors said she was too old for surgery, so she’s been bedridden ever since. From that point on, every aspect of her life—eating, drinking, and basic hygiene—has happened right there in that bed.

I have two older brothers. The eldest is seventy-two and a walking encyclopedia of ailments himself—high blood pressure, diabetes, getting winded just from walking. My second brother is sixty-nine and lives down south helping his son raise the grandkids; he barely makes it home once a year. So, the burden of caring for Mom fell squarely on my shoulders.

I won’t lie—I’ve felt resentful. In the dead of night, lying on the small cot in the living room, I’d hear her calling from the inner room: "Xiuying—Xiuying—" Each call felt like a cat clawing at my heart. I’d toss and turn, tears streaming down my face. Why was I crying? I cried for my hard life, for the fact that I couldn't find a moment's peace even at my age, and I cried for my mother. She used to be such a sharp, capable woman; how did she end up like this?

At the beginning, I was exhausted. So exhausted I wanted to run into a wall.

And it wasn't just physical—though God knows my old back was nearly breaking from the constant turning, changing pads, feeding, and washing. It was the mental toll. My mother was used to being the matriarch, the one in charge. She had a hard temperament, and even though she was paralyzed, her tongue remained as sharp as ever.

If I fed her, it was too cold. If I turned her, I was being too rough. If I changed her pads, I was "clumsy" and taking too long. One time, I finally snapped: "Mom, why can't you show a little empathy? I’m sixty-eight now. I’m an old woman too!"

And you know what she said?

She said, "So what if you're an old woman? I’m your mother! Are you actually feeling aggrieved about serving your own mother?"

In that moment, it felt like someone had reached in and squeezed my heart. I couldn't speak. My hands shook as I held her bowl. I set it on the nightstand, walked out to the courtyard, and just let the tears fall.

My daughter lives in the city and calls every few days to ask if I’m tired, if I’m holding up. I always say I’m fine, that I can manage. She tells me not to push myself, suggesting we hire a caregiver or move Grandma to a nursing home. I tell her no. With Grandma’s temper, what caregiver could stand her? And a nursing home? I couldn't bring myself to do it. My brothers wouldn't agree, and the neighbors would whisper and point at my back for being a "filial failure."

After hanging up, I sat there thinking for a long time. It felt like my whole life had been this way—obeying my mother as a child, my mother-in-law after marriage, my daughter in my later years, and now, back to my mother again. But where was I? Where was the person named Wang Xiuying?

I didn't sleep well that night. I kept wondering: what is this all for? I’m working myself to death, my mother isn't grateful, and I’m full of bitterness. Is this what "filial piety" is supposed to look like? We talk about Xiao Shun—filial devotion and obedience. I could do the Xiao (the care), but I was finding it harder and harder to do the Shun (the submissive obedience).

The turning point came last winter.

It was a bitter cold day. I was changing my mother’s pads, and she started complaining again, saying my hands were cold and shocking her. I said, "Mom, I just came in from outside, of course my hands are cold. Let me warm them up first." She wouldn't listen. She insisted I was doing it on purpose because I "loathed" her, saying I wasn't as filial as my eldest brother because at least he called to check in, while I just "gave her a face" all day.

I just snapped.

It wasn't a screaming match. It was more like... a string inside my head just broke. I dropped the pad on the floor, stood up, and looked her in the eye. "Mom, if you say one more word, I’m not changing you today. You can deal with it yourself."

My mother was stunned.

She had probably never heard me use that tone with her. I was stunned too; I hadn't expected those words to come out of my mouth. We just stared at each other. The room was so quiet you could hear the ticking of the clock.

After a long silence, she turned her face away and muttered, "Fine, don't change it. Nobody cares if I live or die anyway."

I didn't take the bait. I went to the kitchen, drank a cup of hot water to warm my hands, then went back to her bedside, picked up the pad, and changed her without saying a word. She stayed silent, and so did I.

Afterward, I went to the kitchen and made her a bowl of millet porridge with two whisked eggs. I brought it to her. She still ignored me, so I set the bowl on the nightstand and said, "The porridge is here. It’ll taste worse if it gets cold. Do what you want."

Then I walked out.

About ten minutes later, I peeked through the door. She was holding the bowl herself, drinking. Her hands were shaking badly, and she spilled quite a bit on the quilt, but she was eating. Standing there, I felt a strange mix of emotions—a bit of heartache, but also a bit like laughing.

From that day on, I had an epiphany.

I started learning how to not "obey" her every whim.

Before, if she called me in the middle of the night, I’d crawl out of bed nine times out of ten, even if I’d just fallen asleep. Now? If she’s just calling to make noise, I pretend I don't hear. Once, she called four times and I didn't move. When I finally checked on her out of worry, you know what? She just couldn't sleep and wanted me to sit there and talk. I told her, "Mom, I have to get up early to buy groceries and cook for you. If you aren't sleeping, I still need to." I turned off the light and went back to my bed.

Before, if she complained the food was bad, I’d rush to remake it. Now, I say, "Mom, if you don't want to eat, leave it. Eat when you’re hungry." She stays quiet, and after a while, she finishes it.

Before, when she lost her temper and insulted me, I’d endure it until I cried. Now, when she says something nasty, I say, "Mom, if you keep talking like that, I’m going out to the market and leaving you here for a while." She stops immediately. She knows I mean what I say; last time she called me unfilial, I packed a bag and stayed at my daughter's for the night. When I came back the next day, she was on her best behavior for a week.

You might say: isn't this being unfilial? She’s ninety-four! Is it right to be so blunt with her?

I’ll tell you: at first, I worried I was being too much. But then I realized that since I started doing this, we are both more relaxed.

What I was doing before was "Blind Obedience." I followed her every whim, endured her temper, and tolerated her irrationality. The result? I was exhausted like a draft ox, filled with bitterness. I even developed breast hyperplasia. When I went to the doctor, he asked if I was constantly angry. I said no, but he said my body told a different story.

And my mother? She wasn't happy either. After she finished scolding me, she felt miserable too. I once caught her crying to herself after I’d left the room. It hit me then—it’s not that she doesn't know how hard I work; she just can't control herself. Being bedridden and needing help with everything creates a sense of powerlessness and humiliation that I can understand. But the more she felt that way, the more she lashed out to feel like she still existed, which only pushed me away.

I didn't understand that logic before. I just thought: she’s my mother, I must obey, I must endure. By enduring everything, I made myself sick, and I made her miserable.

Now, I’ve wised up.

I set a set of "rules"—not formal ones, just a rhythm we’ve worked out. I still do everything I should: three meals a day, never the same thing twice. I rotate through her favorites—dumplings, wontons, steamed egg custard. I keep her clean, and the room never smells. When neighbors visit, they remark on how tidy everything is. I change the pads immediately, and I sun-dry the quilts so they’re fluffy and comfortable for her.

But—and this is a very important "but"—I don't take abuse I don't deserve.

If she scolds, I don't engage. If she’s being unreasonable, I go for a walk and let her cool down. If she’s nitpicking, I say, "Fine, do it yourself then." She knows she can't, so she stops.

And guess what? She’s much calmer now.

Her temper has cooled significantly. Sometimes, after I wash her down, she’ll take my hand and say, "Xiuying, you’ve worked hard." That one sentence makes my heart feel warm, and suddenly, it all feels worth it.

Last month, my second brother came back from the south. He was surprised to see her. He said, "Mom looks great! She’s got her spirit back." I told him, "Of course. I’ve stopped fighting with her, and I’ve stopped fighting with myself. Everyone is at peace, so why wouldn't she look better?"

He asked me how I did it. I thought about it and gave him four words: Xiao Er Bu Shun—Filial, but not obedient.

He didn't quite get it, and I didn't bother explaining. This isn't something you can explain to others; you have to cross that threshold yourself to understand it.

Now, I finish washing her by 8:00 PM, and she’s asleep by 9:00. I have my own time now. I watch TV, video call my daughter, or play digital mahjong on WeChat with my old friends. My daughter says I look much better. I tell her it’s because I’ve realized something: I have to live my own life well before I can take care of her grandmother.

If I work myself into a grave or get sick from stress, who will look after her? My daughter works in the city; she can't come back every day. My eldest brother can barely walk, and my second brother is too far away. If I fail, she ends up in a nursing home. With her temper? She wouldn't last three days before getting into a fight.

So, I have to stay well. I have to live healthily. I serve her not because I "owe" her, but because I choose to. I am filial to her, but I don't obey her every whim. I have my boundaries, and I have my life.

The night before last, I couldn't sleep—not because she called, but just regular insomnia. I got up for water and passed her door. I heard her talking in her sleep—mumbling, hard to catch. It sounded like she was calling my name, or maybe my late father's.

I stood there for a bit, then pushed the door open gently. The moonlight hit her face. She was deep asleep, but her brow was furrowed like she had something on her mind.

I tucked her in, and she suddenly woke up. She looked at me dazed and said, "Xiuying, why aren't you asleep yet?"

I said, "Just getting water. I heard you talking and came to check."

She gave an "oh," then said, "You get some sleep too. Don't ruin your health."

I said, "I know. Go back to sleep."

She closed her eyes, then opened them again. "Xiuying, these past few days... you've worked hard."

I said, "Alright, alright, don't start that in the middle of the night. Just sleep."

Only then did she drift off peacefully.

I stood by the bed looking at her, and a feeling I can't quite describe washed over me. I leaned down and gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. She didn't wake up; she just rolled over and kept sleeping.

I went back to my own bed and felt a deep sense of calm.

At this age, you see through everything. Whether people think you’re "filial" or not, or what the neighbors say—none of it matters. What matters is that I no longer feel suffocated, and she is living comfortably.

I serve her with all my heart and a clear conscience. But I no longer sacrifice my soul. I’m firm when I need to be and soft when I can be. I step back when she rages, and she doesn't get to control me when I’m at my limit.

This isn't a lack of filial piety. This is placing that devotion on a foundation that is more sustainable and real.

Now, whenever I talk to people, I tell them: when taking care of the elderly, the most dangerous word is "obedience." You think you’re being a good child, but you’re actually just enabling them and destroying yourself. Filial piety is one thing; total obedience is another.

Filial piety is what you should do: the feeding, the cleaning, the care, being there until the very end. That is your duty.

Obedience is what you choose to do: obey where you can, but where you can't, don't force it.

Forced obedience only makes everyone suffer.

Being filial but not submissive is the only way to care for an elderly parent at this age without burning out.

I’m sixty-eight. I don't know how many years I have left in me. I only know that from now on, I’m going to live well. Every day I live will be a day lived with spirit.

As long as my mother is alive, I will serve her—not as a beast of burden, but with my head held high.

She is my mother, and my devotion to her is a law of nature.

But I am myself. I have to be true to myself before I can truly be there for her.

It’s as simple as that.