The Other Side of the Coin

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The Other Side of the Coin: A Lesson About Working Parents

When I had just stepped into the software industry—fresh, uncertain, and quietly carrying nearly two decades of my identity as a teacher—I found myself in a conversation that stayed with me long after it ended.

I met Shweta, a young and earnest pre-primary teacher who worked with kindergarten children. There was a certain warmth about her, the kind you often see in those who spend their days around little ones. But that day, her warmth was overshadowed by agitation.

The moment she learned that I worked in the IT industry, her tone shifted.

Almost instantly, she began to vent.

“Parents these days are so cold,” she said. “Especially those in IT. They’re always busy, always in meetings. They don’t have time for their own children.”

She went on to share an incident.

A child in her class had developed a fever during school hours. Concerned, Shweta called the child’s mother, requesting her to come and pick up her daughter. The response she received left her upset.

“The mother said she had important meetings and couldn’t come,” Shweta said, her voice filled with disbelief. “She asked me to give the child some medicine and let her sleep.”

Shweta shook her head in frustration. “How can someone be so heartless? So money-minded? Where are the feelings?”

She paused and looked at me, perhaps expecting agreement—perhaps validation.

But what she didn’t know was that before stepping into the IT world, I had spent almost twenty years as a teacher. I had lived the very reality she was speaking from.

I met her gaze and gently asked,
“What would happen if this situation involved a teacher’s own child?”

She looked confused.

“Can a teacher carry a mobile phone into the classroom?” I continued.
“Can she leave her class midway to attend a call?”
“Can she step out because her child is unwell?”

The questions hung in the air.

For a moment, Shweta was silent. The certainty in her voice softened. Her agitation gave way to reflection. She looked… almost embarrassed.

I didn’t stop there.

“Did you try calling the father?” I asked.
“Why do we assume it is only the mother’s responsibility to respond?”

That question seemed to land even deeper.

It made me reflect on something far bigger than just that one incident—how easily we form narratives, how quickly we assign blame, and how unconsciously we reinforce certain roles.

We see a situation from one side and believe it to be the whole truth.

But is it?

In that moment, I shared what life had taught me—both as a teacher and as a professional navigating another demanding career.

“There is always another side to the story,” I said gently.
“Teachers, too, carry immense responsibility. Even if their own child is unwell, they are expected to show up, stand in front of a classroom, and give their best. Every profession comes with its own compulsions, its own silent sacrifices.”

It is easy to judge what we do not fully understand. It is easy to label, to generalize, to say “they are like this.” But every such statement erases the complexity of real lives.

That day reminded me how important it is to pause before forming opinions—and even more important, before expressing them.

That’s because words don’t just reflect our thoughts.
They shape perceptions.
They influence how we see entire groups of people. Sometimes, all it takes is a single conversation to realise how incomplete our understanding can be.

Before we judge, perhaps we need to ask: What might I be missing?

For more often than not—there is always another side of the coin.