I can’t take it anymore. Where can I send my elderly mum?
I’m at my breaking point. I thought I could handle this, but I’ve got nothing left. I need to share my story—it’s tearing me apart.
I’m the second child in the family. My older brother, Oliver, is three years ahead of me. Mum had us late—Oliver came when she was 42. My parents waited so long for kids; Mum struggled with infertility, but in the end, it happened—she had my brother.
Three years later, there was me—Emily—when Mum was 45. Her age always showed. Oliver and I grew up with older parents, and that shaped everything. Sometimes they didn’t have the energy or the understanding of our world, but we never complained. Mum and Dad loved us endlessly, and we loved them right back.
When I was 17, Dad passed. It crushed all of us. Mum was a wreck—her light just went out, like her heart had been ripped in two. For me and Oliver, it was unbearable, but we held each other together and somehow got through it. Life moved on. Oliver went off to uni, graduated, and ended up settling in Canada, where he still is. I stayed here in Manchester.
Now Mum’s 78, and she needs constant care. I took her in—my flat’s small, but I made it work. Honestly? It’s harder than I ever imagined. An elderly person at that age? It’s tougher than raising a kid. She keeps leaving the iron on, no matter how many times I beg her not to touch my things. “I just want to help,” she says, and I sigh because how can I be mad at her for that?
I can’t bring myself to tell her she shouldn’t cook anymore. Her meals are either too salty or half-raw, or she’ll forget she ever put a pan on the stove. Her memory’s getting scary. Once, she wandered off and couldn’t find her way back. We searched for hours—I called everyone, checked every street nearby until my mate rang and said she’d spotted Mum in the park, looking lost and terrified.
I still shake thinking what could’ve happened if not for that call. Caring for Mum is exhausting. I want my own life, but every day’s just another marathon of worry. I can’t keep this up.
I’m in my fifties now. I raised two kids, poured everything into them, and when they moved out, I thought—finally, time for me. But no, here I am, back in caregiver mode, only now it’s my mum. She’s getting worse, more helpless by the day, and I feel myself falling apart.
I don’t know what to do. Sometimes a horrible thought creeps in—where can I send her? It sounds awful. She’s my mum—the woman who gave me everything. But I’m drowning. I don’t have the strength, physically or mentally.
Oliver calls from Canada, checks in, but he can’t help. He’s got his own life, his own family. He sends money, but money doesn’t fix this. It’s just me in this battle, and every day’s another guilt trip. I hate that I snap at her, that I dream of freedom, that part of me wants to run.
It’s not Mum’s fault. She didn’t ask to get old, to get sick, to lose herself. But I didn’t ask for my life to become this endless caretaking either. I love her, but it’s a weight I can hardly carry.
I remember who she used to be—strong, caring, always there. Now she needs me, and I’m failing. The thought of putting her in a care home kills me—but how much longer can I do this?
My friends say I should hire help or ask social services, but I can’t stand the idea of a stranger looking after her. What if they’re cruel? What if she feels abandoned?
Every night when I tuck her in, I see how much older she looks. She smiles, sometimes says my name—other times, she mistakes me for someone else. And every time, I wonder—how do I find the strength to keep going?
I don’t know where to send my mum. I don’t know how to balance duty and my own life. My love for her fights against my despair, and I don’t know which will win.
