It’s Eid and I’m sitting at the dinner table. My parents have rustled up a feast and I’m in complete denial about how much ghee has gone into the pilau because I’m already eyeing up seconds.

I look over at my dad. His glass of water is untouched. I kiss my teeth. “Dad, why aren’t you drinking your water?”

“I have.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“How many glasses do you drink a day?”

“One.”

Shocking. I move on to fruit.

“So… have you eaten any today?”

Before he can answer, my mum snitches. “He’ll have a pear every now and then.”

I launch into a lecture about hydration, fibre and type 2 diabetes as my dad’s eyes slowly glaze over. He’d completely checked out. This was the fourth lecture I’d given him about his health, bowels and smoking habits in the space of two months. And I’d seen that expression before. It was a carbon copy of the one I would make at 15, sitting opposite my parents while they lectured me about looking after myself.

And that’s when it hit me. We’d done a complete role reversal. I was parenting my parents.

This blows my mind because there was a time when I thought mum and dad were the most powerful people on the planet. More powerful than the US president or my primary school headteacher. They knew everything. They decided everything. Their word wasn’t just law, it was the only law.

Every immigrant child has had the “immigrant speech” monologued to them from an irate parent: “I came to this country with nothing. I know what’s best for you.” Blah, blah, blah. Immigrant parents were unquestionable. Immovable. My parents experienced racism like our generation never did. None of this covert racist stuff and microaggressions we talk about today. No, it was good, old-fashioned-in-your-face racism. I am talking about National Front marches on your doorstep, horrific violence and intimidation, access to housing and education denied. We were raised on the classic “they crawled so we could run” mantra so, of course, you were forever indebted, forever grateful and more importantly forever obedient.

I never dreamt that we would have an equal relationship, let alone one where they asked for my advice and actually took me seriously. But somewhere along the way, without any of us noticing, my siblings and I somehow became the family board of directors.

That’s the strange thing about growing up with immigrant parents. In one sense, you’ve been helping them navigate Britain since you were a child. I grew up translating letters, speaking to banks, pretending I understood mortgage rates and filling in forms that were far above my pay grade. But that wasn’t parenting. That was just cosplaying an interpreter and a very bad mortgage broker. The emotional power never shifted. They were the adults. We were the children. They were always right and we were always wrong.

They told us what to eat, what to wear, who we could go out with and when to come home. They looked after us when we were ill. They were our carers. Now, the tables have turned. My siblings and I have to constantly remind them to check their blood sugar, hydrate and eat more healthily. My dad gets endless colds. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve begged him to drink more lemon and ginger tea. Does he listen? Of course not.

The strangest consequence of parenting my parents is that it has brought us closer. They’re starting to let us in now in ways they never did before. They ask for our advice. They tell us when something hurts. They admit when they’re worried and, most extraordinarily of all, they admit when they’re wrong. I honestly thought hell would freeze over before I heard an apology come out of either of their mouths.

For years they protected us from their vulnerability. Now they trust us with it. Our relationship feels more honest than it ever has. I just wish we’d got here sooner before their health started declining. I spent so many years wishing my parents would chill out. I just never imagined it would happen because age got there first.

Caring for them is funny sometimes, frustrating most of the time and, every now and then, heartbreaking. Not because they’ve become different people, but because you suddenly realise they’re no longer the invincible people you always believed they were. Growing old is hard enough, growing old in a country where the language, the systems and the bureaucracy is alien adds another layer of vulnerability.

When I was a child, helping my parents navigate Britain was easy because we all lived under one roof. Now I can’t be at every GP appointment, every hospital scan or every confusing phone call. I can’t translate every conversation or catch every misunderstanding. That’s the hardest part. You spend your childhood helping your parents navigate a country that wasn’t built for them. Then, before you realise it, you’re helping them navigate old age too.

Next time I visit my parents, I’ll probably ask my dad if he’s drunk enough water. He’ll probably say he has, even though he hasn’t. He’ll roll his eyes in exactly the same way I used to. In my culture, looking after your parents in later life isn’t unusual. My parents have six children and we’ll all do our bit, just as they did for us.

Perhaps that’s the deal we make with our parents. They spend the first half of their lives fighting to build us a life they never got and we spend the second half trying to return the favour.