I made a promise to myself: if my mother is no longer here, I’ll follow her…
I first heard the word “trial” when I was only a few years old. I didn’t understand what it meant back then, but now, at the age of 44, I can confidently say that my entire life has been a series of trials, each tougher than the last. If it hadn’t been for my mum, I would have given up long ago. Without her, I am nothing. So, I made a decision that might seem like madness, but it’s mine: when her time comes, so will mine.
My name is Sophie. When I was born, the doctors gave my parents no hope. They said I had a rare form of systemic arthritis that would increasingly stiffen my joints, taking away my freedom, abilities, and hopes. By the time I was three, I realized I was different. Other children could run, jump, and climb. I sat on the bench and watched. Whenever I tried to stand, pain pierced me to tears.
My parents gave up the idea of having another child. Their lives revolved entirely around me. Dad, a brilliant mathematician, left his academic career to take any job he could find, ensuring Mum and I lacked nothing. He worked up to twenty hours a day to buy us two flats—one to rent out, the other to live in. He built a cottage and became a company co-owner with his brother—all to secure my future.
He passed when I was twenty. Mum remained. The sole, strong, unwavering, beautiful woman who never complained. Morning workouts, then breakfast, treatments, doctor visits, translations, meetings, calls, consultations—she stood by me through it all. Not for praise, not out of duty, but purely out of love.
I was home-schooled and learned English, German, Italian, and French. I work as a translator online. Occasionally, I’m invited to seminars, and Mum is always by my side. We are inseparable. She isn’t just my mother; she is my universe.
Yes, it hurts. Yes, every movement is an effort. No, I will never have children. I won’t get married. I won’t play Chopin. I won’t become the doctor I dreamed of being. But I live. Because Mum lives.
We never speak about the future. It’s our unspoken agreement. I know that one day she will leave. That’s life. And I know my cousin, Olivia, will need to take care of me—Mum discussed everything with her, arranged papers, the will, the flat. I found out by accident. But I said nothing. Because speaking would mean telling the truth. And the truth is: I don’t want to live without Mum.
I don’t fear pain. I don’t fear loneliness. I fear the void. And that void will come with her last breath. Then, I’ll make my choice. There are many dignified ways to leave—without pity, without a fuss, without drama.
But for now, with Mum beside me, I will live. For her. For her smile. So that each morning she knows: I’m still here. And that’s what life is all about.
