I made a promise to myself: if my mum was ever to leave this world, I would follow her…
The first time I heard the word “challenge,” I was just a child. I didn’t know its meaning back then, but now at 44, I can confidently say my life has been nothing but a series of challenges, each one harder than the last. Without my mum, I would have given up long ago. Without her, I am nobody. That’s why I made a decision that may seem mad, but it’s mine: once she’s gone, I’ll go too.
My name is Sophie. When I was born, the doctors gave my parents no hope. A rare form of systemic arthritis would gradually imprison my joints, stripping away my freedom, abilities, and hope. At three, I realized I was different. Other kids danced around, climbed, and played freely. I sat quietly on a bench, watching. Occasionally, I’d try to get up, but the pain would bring tears to my eyes.
My parents gave up on having another child, dedicating their entire lives to me. My father, a brilliant mathematician, left academia to take on every odd job available so my mum and I wouldn’t want for anything. He worked tirelessly, day and night, to buy us two houses—one to live in and one to rent out. He built a small holiday home and became co-owner of a business with his brother—all to secure my future.
He passed away when I was twenty. My mum stayed behind. The only one. Strong. Unyielding. A beautiful woman who never complained. Mornings began with exercises, followed by breakfast, treatments, doctor visits, translations, meetings, calls, and consultations—she was by my side through it all. Not for recognition, not out of obligation, but because she loves me.
I was homeschooled, later mastering English, German, Italian, and French. I work as a translator, online. Sometimes I’m invited to seminars, and mum is always with me. We are inseparable. She’s not just my mother; she is my universe.
Yes, I endure pain. 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 a doctor as I once dreamed. But I live because my mum lives.
We never discuss the future. It’s an unspoken agreement. I know the day will come when she leaves. Life is like that. I’m also aware that my cousin Olivia is meant to take care of me—mum sorted everything with her: documents, a will, the house. I found out by accident but never said a word. Because if I did, I’d have to tell the truth. And the truth is, I don’t want to live without my mum.
I’m not afraid of the pain. I’m not afraid of being alone. I fear the emptiness. And that emptiness will arrive with her last breath. Then, I’ll make my choice. There are many ways to leave gracefully—without pity, without screams, without drama.
But while mum is with me, I will live. For her. For her smile. For her to know each morning that I’m still here. And that’s what gives life meaning.
