THE UNWITTING MATRIARCH

She never asked to lead. She simply never stopped showing up. 

Chapter 17 — Why Does Everyone Ring Me?

The funny thing about becoming the person everybody relies upon is that nobody ever formally appoints you to the position. There is no ceremony, no certificate arrives in the mail and there is certainly no family meeting where everyone votes on who should become the family organiser. It simply happens so gradually that nobody notices until one day they realise that every problem, every emergency and every important piece of news seems to travel through the same person.

In Kerre’s case, the transformation was almost invisible because it developed over decades. One day she was simply helping out where she could, making the occasional phone call and checking on relatives when circumstances required it. The next thing she knew, people were ringing her first whenever something happened.

The strange part was that Kerre never really seemed to recognise the role she had assumed. Throughout our conversations she would casually mention helping one relative, organising something for another or checking in on someone who was struggling. She would tell these stories as though they were completely ordinary and expected, never appearing to realise that most families have only one or two people who consistently take on those responsibilities.

Looking back across the stories she shared, the signs had been there for years. She had always been dependable, practical and capable of sorting through confusion to identify what actually mattered. While others worried about problems, Kerre usually focused on finding solutions.

That tendency became increasingly important as the family grew older. Children became adults, adults became parents and the generation that had once looked after everybody else began needing care themselves. Health issues became more common, hospital visits occurred more frequently and family crises seemed to arrive with greater regularity than anyone would have preferred.

Somewhere during those years, Kerre became the person everyone trusted to coordinate information. Relatives would ring her to find out what was happening, while others would ring to make sure somebody else had been informed. Before long she was functioning as an unofficial communications hub connecting different branches of the family.

The situation became particularly obvious whenever illness entered the picture. Hospitals have an extraordinary ability to create confusion inside large families because information often arrives in fragments and emotions frequently cloud understanding. Different people hear different things, draw different conclusions and unintentionally create multiple versions of the same story.

When Carolyn experienced health difficulties, the familiar pattern quickly emerged. Family members wanted updates, reassurance and explanations about what was happening. Kerre found herself speaking with relatives, relaying information and helping people understand the situation without creating unnecessary panic.

The role required more than simply passing messages from one person to another. Medical terminology often makes perfect sense to doctors while leaving family members feeling bewildered and overwhelmed. Kerre possessed a rare ability to translate complicated situations into language that ordinary people could understand.

That skill proved valuable time and again as various family members encountered health challenges. While others focused on their fear, concern or uncertainty, Kerre naturally concentrated on the practical details that still needed attention. She understood that somebody had to ensure information remained accurate and that family members remained connected.

The same pattern appeared repeatedly during Christine’s health struggles. Hospital visits are often remembered for the medical procedures and diagnoses, but families frequently remember different things entirely. They remember who showed up, who made the phone calls and who quietly handled the practical tasks that nobody else wanted to think about.

Kerre was often that person. She could sit beside a hospital bed offering reassurance one moment and then organise visitors, transport arrangements and family communications the next. Not everybody possesses the ability to move comfortably between emotional support and practical organisation, but Kerre seemed to manage both without giving the matter much thought.

Perhaps that capability was rooted in her upbringing. Growing up in a family where money was scarce and responsibilities arrived early tends to produce adults who understand that problems rarely solve themselves. The Ferguson household was not a place where people sat around waiting for someone else to take charge.

Throughout her life, Kerre carried that lesson with her. Whenever difficulties arose, she instinctively looked for ways to improve the situation rather than dwelling on how unfortunate it might be. That approach served her well and, perhaps more importantly, served the people around her well.

One of the recurring themes in her stories involved the balancing act between caring and organising. Most people naturally gravitate toward one side or the other, becoming either emotional supporters or practical problem solvers. Kerre somehow managed to occupy both roles simultaneously, offering compassion without losing sight of what needed to be done.

Life does not stop simply because someone becomes ill or because a family encounters hardship. Meals still need preparing, appointments still need attending and information still needs communicating. The practical demands of daily life continue moving forward regardless of personal circumstances.

Kerre seemed to understand that reality instinctively. While others concentrated on the crisis itself, she often found herself dealing with everything surrounding the crisis. She was arranging transport, making phone calls, coordinating visits and ensuring that important details did not slip through the cracks.

The same qualities emerged in her interactions with Mert and other relatives who increasingly relied upon family support as the years passed. Large families have a tendency to spread across towns, regions and states, making communication more difficult than it once was. Despite those distances, people remained connected largely because certain individuals made the effort to maintain those connections.

Kerre was one of those individuals. She remembered who needed checking on, who required assistance and who might appreciate a phone call simply because they were feeling isolated. Those small acts rarely attract attention, yet they often become the glue that holds families together.

Listening to her stories, I was struck by how little recognition she expected for any of it. She never presented herself as a hero and never appeared interested in claiming credit for helping others. In her mind she was simply doing what family members should do for one another.

That attitude may explain why people trusted her so completely. There was never any sense that she was keeping score or expecting repayment. People knew they could ring Kerre because experience had taught them she would help if she could.

Over time that trust created its own momentum. The more people relied upon her, the more often they sought her assistance. The more frequently she solved problems, the more naturally people turned to her when new problems appeared.

Responsibility has a curious way of attracting additional responsibility. Reliable people often discover that their competence becomes visible to everyone around them. Before long they find themselves carrying burdens they never consciously agreed to carry.

I suspect Kerre never viewed those responsibilities as burdens. Throughout our conversations she described helping family members in the same matter-of-fact way she described cooking dinner or feeding animals. To her, looking after people was simply another part of life.

That perspective probably explains why she remained willing to answer the phone whenever it rang. Some calls brought good news, while others delivered difficult news and some involved nothing more than a worried relative needing someone to listen. Regardless of the reason, Kerre usually answered.

As the stories accumulated, a broader picture gradually emerged. What I was hearing was not simply a collection of family anecdotes but evidence of a deeper transformation that had taken place over many years. Without consciously seeking the role, Kerre had become one of the central pillars supporting an extended family.

She had never demanded authority and had certainly never sought recognition. Instead, she earned trust through countless small actions repeated over decades. Every phone call answered, every hospital visit made and every family problem quietly managed contributed to that reputation.

The title of matriarch is often imagined as something grand and formal. In reality, it usually develops through ordinary moments that seem insignificant at the time. People begin relying upon someone because that person consistently proves dependable when life becomes difficult.

That was exactly what happened with Kerre. She became the organiser because she organised, the supporter because she supported and the trusted voice because she consistently demonstrated sound judgement. Nobody appointed her to the role because the role simply grew around her.

By the time she started wondering why everybody kept ringing her, the answer had already been established. The girl who once wandered off and caused everyone else concern had quietly become the woman everyone contacted whenever they were concerned themselves. Without planning it, seeking it or even recognising it for many years, Kerre had become the centre of the family.

That realisation sits at the heart of her story. The unwitting matriarch was never crowned, elected or appointed. She simply spent a lifetime showing up when people needed her, until eventually everyone assumed she always would.