The Question Everyone Thinking About Moving Abroad Is Afraid to Ask: What About My Parents?

You have done the research. You know which visa you qualify for. You have checked the salary ranges, the cost of living, the weather. You have even started studying for the IELTS.

But there is one question you keep pushing to the back of your mind. It comes back every time you see your mother's face on a video call, every time your father mentions a doctor's appointment, every time a relative casually says, "So who will take care of them when you go?"

What happens to my parents?

This is the article that immigration websites never write. Because it is not about visas or points systems or salary thresholds. It is about the deepest obligation many of us carry — the unspoken contract between a child and the parents who sacrificed everything so that child could have a future.

If you are from Nigeria, India, the Philippines, Pakistan, or almost any country in the developing world, this question is not just practical. It is existential. And you deserve an honest answer.

The Weight of Filial Duty

In Western cultures, there is a concept of individual independence: children grow up, move out, build their own lives, and parents are expected to manage through retirement systems, pensions, and elderly care infrastructure.

In most of the developing world, that infrastructure does not exist. There is no reliable state pension. Public healthcare for the elderly is often inadequate. Nursing homes carry a stigma so deep that even mentioning them feels like a betrayal.

In Nigerian culture, the eldest child — especially the eldest son or daughter — carries an implicit responsibility for ageing parents. It is not written in any contract. It is deeper than that. It is woven into how you were raised, into the prayers your mother said over you, into the sacrifices your father made to pay your school fees.

In Filipino culture, it is utang na loob — a debt of gratitude that can never be fully repaid. Your parents fed you, clothed you, sent you to school. Now it is your turn. The eldest daughter who sends money home every month is not being generous. She is fulfilling an obligation as fundamental as breathing.

In Indian and Pakistani families, the concept of seva — selfless service to parents — is not optional. A son or daughter who leaves ageing parents to "pursue opportunity" abroad can carry a shame that no amount of success can wash away.

So when someone tells you "just move, your parents will be fine," they do not understand. The question is not whether your parents will survive. The question is whether you can live with yourself.

How Diaspora Families Actually Manage

Let me share what I have learned from speaking to dozens of migrants who have navigated this exact situation. Not the idealised version — the real one.

The Remittance Structure

The most common arrangement is financial support from abroad combined with on-the-ground family coordination.

Amara, 39, Nigerian, works in supply chain management in Manchester:

"I send GBP 500 home every month. That covers my mother's medication, a home help who comes three days a week, and contributes to household expenses. My younger brother lives in Abuja, about two hours from our family home in Nasarawa. He visits every other weekend. My mother's neighbour, Aunty Bisi, checks on her daily — we pay her a small stipend for that.

Is it perfect? No. There are days my mother calls me crying because she is lonely. There are days I cry because I was not there when she fell in the bathroom. But the money I send means she sees a good doctor. She takes her medications. She eats well. Before I left, she was rationing her blood pressure pills because we could not afford the full prescription."

This is the reality for millions of diaspora families: you trade physical presence for financial capacity. It is an imperfect trade. But for many families, it is a net positive because the financial capacity enables a quality of care that was not possible before.

Typical monthly remittance structures I have seen:

Migrant Location	Monthly Amount Sent Home	What It Covers
UK (mid-level salary)	GBP 400 - 700	Parent medication, part-time caregiver, household bills, food
Canada (mid-level salary)	CAD 600 - 1,000	Similar coverage, plus contribution to sibling support
Australia (mid-level salary)	AUD 700 - 1,200	Parent healthcare, caregiver, home maintenance
Gulf states (mid-level salary)	USD 500 - 900	Often the primary income for the entire household

The Caregiver Arrangement

Hiring a caregiver or home help for ageing parents is increasingly common among diaspora families, even though it was almost unheard of a generation ago.

Priya, 44, Indian, works as an IT project manager in Toronto:

"When I first suggested hiring a caregiver for my parents in Chennai, my mother was horrified. 'We are not that kind of family,' she said. But my father had early-stage Parkinson's, and my mother's arthritis made it hard for her to help him with daily tasks. My brother and I are both in Canada.

We started small. A woman from the neighbourhood came for two hours in the morning to help with cooking and cleaning. Then we added evening visits. Now she is there from 8 AM to 6 PM. My parents have grown to love her. My father calls her 'beta' — daughter. It took six months for my mother to stop feeling ashamed about it, but now she says she does not know how she managed without the help.

We pay INR 18,000 per month for her. That is about CAD 290. Between my brother and me, it is CAD 145 each. It is the best money I have ever spent."

The key insight from Priya's story is that caregiver arrangements often face initial resistance from parents who see accepting help as a loss of dignity. Patience and gradual introduction are essential.

Rotating Family Visits

For families with multiple siblings abroad or split between home and abroad, rotating visits create a rhythm of physical presence.

Rashid, 41, Pakistani, works as a civil engineer in Birmingham:

"My parents are in Lahore. I have two brothers — one in Dubai, one still in Pakistan. We have an informal system. The brother in Pakistan sees them weekly. I fly back twice a year, usually Eid and either summer or winter. My brother in Dubai goes back three or four times a year because the flights are shorter and cheaper.

Between the three of us, our parents have a family member visiting at least once a month. We have a WhatsApp group where we coordinate. If my father has a hospital appointment, whoever can take time off handles it. Usually that is my brother in Lahore, but for major things — a surgery, a hospital admission — one of us flies back.

My company gives me 28 days of annual leave. I use 14 of those days for Pakistan. That is a sacrifice. I have not had a proper holiday in three years. My wife is incredibly patient about it. But my father is 71, and I know this time is finite."

The Sibling Arrangement

In many families, one sibling stays behind (or stays closer) while others migrate. This creates its own tensions.

Grace, 36, Filipino, works as a nurse in Melbourne:

"My younger sister stayed in Cebu. She lives with our parents. I send PHP 25,000 a month specifically for our parents' needs, and I pay for my sister's nursing board review because she wants to follow me eventually.

But there is resentment. My sister feels like she is the one doing the real work — the daily caregiving, the emotional labour — while I am the one living the comfortable life abroad. She has said it to me directly: 'It is easy for you to send money. I am the one who wakes up at 3 AM when Mama cannot sleep.'

She is right. Money does not replace presence. I carry that guilt every day. But I also know that without the money I send, my mother's dialysis would have stopped six months ago. We cannot afford it on a Cebu salary. Both contributions are necessary. Neither one of us alone could provide what our parents need."

This dynamic — the migrant who sends money versus the sibling who provides daily care — is one of the most common and most painful tensions in diaspora families. There is no clean solution. There is only communication, gratitude, and the willingness to acknowledge that both roles carry burdens.

Parent Visa Options: What Actually Exists

Many migrants hold on to the hope that they can eventually bring their parents to live with them. Here is the honest picture.

Canada: Super Visa

The Super Visa is the most accessible parent visa option among major destination countries.

Duration: Allows parents/grandparents to stay for up to 5 years per visit
Requirements: The child in Canada must meet a minimum income threshold (varies by family size, roughly CAD 45,000 - 60,000+ for a family of 2-4), provide private health insurance for the parent (approximately CAD 1,500 - 3,000/year depending on age and health), and submit an invitation letter
Processing time: 3-6 months
Limitations: It is a visitor visa, not permanent residency. Parents cannot work or access public healthcare. The insurance requirement becomes expensive as parents age.

The Parents and Grandparents Program (PGP) for permanent residency exists but is severely backlogged. Canada uses a lottery system, and in 2024, over 200,000 people applied for 15,000 spots. The odds are not in your favour. Apply every year.

United Kingdom: Parent Visa (Adult Dependent Relative)

This is the hardest parent visa among major destinations.

Requirements: You must prove that your parent requires long-term personal care, that this care is not available or affordable in their home country, and that they are financially dependent on you.
Reality: The approval rate is extremely low. The UK government's position is essentially that if any form of care exists in the parent's home country, the visa should be refused. In practice, this means it is nearly impossible unless your parent has a very specific medical condition that genuinely cannot be treated at home.
Cost: GBP 3,250 application fee plus Immigration Health Surcharge.

I will be direct: for most migrants in the UK, bringing parents permanently is not a realistic option under current rules. The standard visitor visa (up to 6 months) is the most common arrangement. Some families rotate 6-month visits so that a parent spends alternating halves of the year in the UK and at home.

Australia: Parent Visa

Australia offers both a standard Parent Visa (Subclass 103) and a Contributory Parent Visa (Subclass 143).

Subclass 103: Costs roughly AUD 4,990 but has a wait time of 30+ years. That is not a typo.
Subclass 143: Costs roughly AUD 47,955 per parent but has a wait time of approximately 6-10 years.
Subclass 870 (Sponsored Parent Temporary Visa): Allows parents to stay for 3-5 years. Costs AUD 5,735 - 11,470. No Medicare access.

Australia's parent visa system is, frankly, broken for most families. The costs are prohibitive and the wait times are absurd. Most diaspora families in Australia rely on repeated visitor visas (Subclass 600, up to 12 months).

Germany

Germany allows family reunification for parents only in cases of "exceptional hardship." In practice, this is very difficult to prove. The more common approach is a national visa for extended visits.

Addressing the Guilt Directly

If you have read this far, you might be feeling heavier, not lighter. So let me say something that I think needs to be said.

The guilt you feel is proof that you are a good child. Not a bad one.

A bad child does not lie awake wondering whether their parents are okay. A bad child does not send money home every month. A bad child does not cry in the bathroom at work after a video call where their mother looked thinner than last time.

The guilt comes from love. And love does not require you to sacrifice your own life and your children's future to prove it is real.

Here is what I have observed across every diaspora community I have engaged with: the migrants who manage the guilt best are the ones who create structure. Not the ones who pretend the guilt does not exist, and not the ones who are consumed by it. The ones who build systems.

A system looks like:

A monthly call schedule that your parents can rely on (every Sunday at 5 PM, no exceptions)
A caregiver arrangement with clear expectations and backup contacts
A financial commitment that is automatic and predictable (standing order on the first of every month)
A visit schedule planned a year in advance (so parents always know when they will see you next)
A family WhatsApp group where someone checks in daily
An emergency protocol: if something happens, who goes? How fast can you get a flight? Do you have savings earmarked for emergency travel?

Structure does not eliminate guilt. But it transforms guilt from a paralysing emotion into a manageable one. You cannot be there every day. But you can ensure that your parents are cared for, financially secure, and connected to you in ways that are consistent and reliable.

The Conversation Nobody Wants to Have

Before you migrate, have the conversation with your parents. Not the "I am thinking about moving" conversation. The real one.

Ask them:

What are you most afraid of if I leave?
What would make you feel safe and cared for?
How do you want us to stay connected?
If something happens to your health, what do you want me to do?
Is there someone in our community you trust to be nearby?

These conversations are painful. Your mother will probably cry. Your father might get angry or go quiet. But having this conversation before you leave is infinitely better than navigating a crisis from 8,000 kilometres away without ever having discussed what your parents actually want.

Some parents will surprise you. Some will say, "Go. This is what we raised you for." Some will say, "I will never forgive you." Most will say something in between. All of their feelings are valid. And so are yours.

The Truth That Nobody Writes in Immigration Guides

Migration is not just a career decision. For people from cultures with deep filial bonds, it is a moral negotiation with yourself that never fully resolves.

You will send money and feel it is not enough. You will visit and feel the visits are too short. You will call and hear in your parent's voice the things they will not say. You will provide a material life for them that was impossible before, and it will not feel like enough because what they really want is you, sitting in the next room, eating the food they cooked.

And yet. Your children will have opportunities. Your parents will have medication and care. Your family's financial trajectory will change permanently. The sacrifice is real. But so is what it makes possible.

You are not abandoning your parents by migrating. You are fulfilling a different version of the same duty — one that trades proximity for provision, presence for possibility.

That is not a betrayal. It is the hardest kind of love.

If you are navigating the decision to migrate and want help thinking through the practical side — visa options, parent visa pathways, financial planning — NextMigrate is here. We understand that migration is never just about paperwork.