My mother called yesterday to ask what time the pharmacy closes. She’s asked this same question at least a dozen times over the past few months. The pharmacy has had the same hours for twenty years, and she knows them perfectly well.
At first, I found myself getting irritated, wondering if this was the beginning of something more serious. But then I noticed the pattern.
She always calls right around dinner time, when the day starts feeling long and empty. She draws out the conversation after I answer her question, mentioning the weather, asking about my reading, wondering if I’ve been walking lately.
That’s when it clicked. She wasn’t calling about pharmacy hours at all.
After decades spent in rooms where every word was calculated and every conversation had an agenda, I’ve learned to read what people aren’t saying.
And what I’m seeing with my mother, and hearing from friends dealing with their own aging parents, is a masterclass in hidden communication. These repeated questions aren’t about confusion or declining memory. They’re about connection disguised as practical necessity.
The currency of legitimate contact
We live in a culture that treats needing information as valid but needing company as weakness. Think about that for a moment. When was the last time someone called you just to hear your voice, and actually said so? It probably felt awkward, maybe even needy.
But asking a question? That’s different. That’s practical. That’s acceptable.
Your aging parent has spent a lifetime learning these social rules. They know that calling to say “I’m lonely” or “I miss talking to you” puts them in a vulnerable position. It makes them seem dependent. It risks rejection. But calling with a question about how to reset the TV remote or what day the garbage goes out? That’s just seeking information. That’s being responsible.
I’ve watched this play out in my own relationships since retirement. When you step away from daily work interactions, the acceptable reasons for contact suddenly shrink. You can’t call to discuss a project or ask about a meeting. The infrastructure of legitimate connection disappears, and you’re left trying to bridge the gap without seeming desperate for human contact.
The fear behind the phone call
There’s something deeper happening here that most of us don’t want to acknowledge. When your parent calls with these repeated questions, they’re managing a profound fear: the fear of becoming irrelevant.
For decades, they were the ones with answers. They taught you to tie your shoes, helped with homework, gave advice about jobs and relationships. Their knowledge had value. Their guidance was needed. Now the tables have turned. You’re the one navigating technology they don’t understand, making decisions in a world that’s moved past them.
So they find the few remaining areas where they can still legitimately need help. Small questions that justify contact. Minor concerns that warrant a phone call. It’s not manipulation in any calculating sense. It’s adaptation to a reality where their traditional roles have evaporated.
I feel this myself at 64. The shift from being someone whose expertise was sought to someone who needs to find reasons to stay connected is jarring. Your sense of usefulness, tied so closely to your identity for so long, suddenly needs a new foundation. Some days I catch myself creating unnecessary complications just to have something to discuss with my children.
Why we respond with frustration
Here’s where it gets uncomfortable. When we respond to these calls with irritation or impatience, we’re not just reacting to the repetition. We’re responding to our own fears about dependency and decline.
Every time your parent calls with a question they should know the answer to, it reminds you of where this is heading. It forces you to see their vulnerability, which means acknowledging your own future vulnerability. That irritation you feel? It’s partially self-protection. If you can frame this as their problem, their confusion, their neediness, you don’t have to face what it really represents.
I’ve noticed this in my own reactions when friends repeat stories or ask for help with simple tasks. The flash of impatience isn’t really about them. It’s about not wanting to see the trajectory we’re all on. It’s about the discomfort of watching independence slowly erode, knowing the same erosion awaits us.
But there’s also the practical pressure. You’re busy. You have your own life, your own stress, your own obligations. These calls often come at inconvenient times, when you’re trying to work or manage your own household. The repetition feels like one more demand in an already overwhelming day.
What if we reframed these moments entirely? What if, instead of seeing them as cognitive decline or neediness, we saw them as your parent teaching you one final lesson?
They’re showing you how to maintain dignity while acknowledging need. They’re demonstrating how to reach out when direct emotional expression feels impossible. They’re finding creative ways to stay connected in a world that increasingly isolates older adults.
Every time my mother calls about those pharmacy hours, she’s really saying several things: I’m still here. I still think of you as someone who has answers. I trust you enough to risk seeming forgetful. Your voice still matters to me.
When you understand this, your response changes. Instead of rushing through the answer and trying to get off the phone, you might find yourself extending the conversation. You might ask about her day, mention something you’ve been reading, share a small observation about your walk that morning.
Creating new patterns of connection
Understanding the real message behind these calls opens up possibilities for better connection. You don’t have to wait for the next repetitive question. You can create new patterns that acknowledge the actual need.
Some friends have started calling their parents regularly with their own “questions.” Things like asking for that recipe they already have, seeking advice about something they already know, wondering about a family story they’ve heard before. It gives their parents the dignity of being needed while creating natural opportunities for longer conversations.
Others have established regular call times that don’t require an excuse. Every Sunday at 4 PM, no agenda needed. The routine itself becomes the reason, removing the burden of justification.
I’ve found that being direct, though uncomfortable at first, sometimes works best. Telling someone “I just called to hear your voice” might feel vulnerable, but it also models a different way of being human together. It says that needing connection isn’t weakness.
Closing thoughts
The next time your aging parent calls with a question they’ve asked before, pause before you answer. Listen not just to the question but to what’s underneath it. Hear the unspoken request for connection, the desire to matter, the need to hear a familiar voice in an increasingly unfamiliar world.
Remember that someday you’ll be the one searching for legitimate reasons to call, finding excuses to hear the voices of people you love. You’ll be the one pretending to need information when what you really need is to know you still exist in someone’s thoughts, that your voice still brings comfort, that the thread of connection hasn’t been severed by time and distance.
The kindest thing you can do is answer the question they’re asking and the one they’re not. Give them the pharmacy hours, then give them your time. Both answers matter, but only one is what they really called to receive.
