Increased geographical mobility, improved medical treatment, and prolonged life expectancy have changed the way of life for older persons and their next of kin. This chapter discusses intergenerational care, mainly from the next of kin's point of view, when an older family member and the next of kin live far from each other. The study is based on my-the author's-autoethnographic account of the experience after my father suffered a stroke a few years ago. Inspired by Ellis et al. (2011, p. 392), who stated that autoethnography may 'analyse personal experience in order to understand cultural experience', I use my father's and my own experiences to analyse how geographical distance and serious illness impact intergenerational care and kinship. While I argue that intergenerational care across geographical distance creates certain vulnerabilities, this specific situation also enables and enacts kinship relations. The study focused on practical support, emotional relations, and communication technologies, and their limitations when illness hits and life changes. It also adds to our understanding of aging, illness, and care across vast geographical distances. I claim that the autoethnographic approach accommodates the subjectivity, emotions and first-hand experiences between the older person and the next of kin. This geography of intergenerational care provides new knowledge about an experience, influencing the later years, for an increasing number of individuals and serviceproviding municipalities, especially in regions marked by outmigration and high youth mobility. Vignette A week before our three-generation family group should leave for the long-planned pilgrimage hike in Spain, I received the alarming phone call. My father, the 'caring hub' of the family, was hit by a sudden and severe stroke. I went cold and numb, hurried into my office, called my husband, booked my flights, called for a taxi, left work, picked up some luggage at home, and went to the airport. During the two flights,my mind was racing with questions: How was he, would we lose him now, how would he become, who would visit and take responsibility for my chronically disabled mother now? A few hours later, my sister, who had arrived on an earlier plane, picked me up from the airport in our hometown and with tears in our eyes, we hugged and drove directly to the hospital. During the 10-minute drive, she updated me: he was conscious. He was not paralysed but had only said a few words. Through tears, we laughed: all the thoughts he tried to formulate transformed into the same words: 'the company'. He obviously experienced aphasia. Arriving at the familiar small-town hospital, we went straight to the four-bed room. Dad looked tiny in the bed, as if he had shrunk. He was pale, and there was an 'emptiness' on his face. His features were childlike in the way he was sitting on the edge of the bed in the hospital pyjamas, his feet not reaching the floor. Yet, despite lacking words and experiencing aphasia, he was also clearly himself. He was vulnerable, ill, a...