I’ve taken my elderly mum in to live with me and now I regret it deeply. I can’t send her back, and I feel ashamed in front of my friends.
Today, I need to spill my story onto paper—it’s so personal, so burdensome that it’s like a weight on my chest. I need advice—something wise and balanced to help me find a way out of this trap that I’ve cornered myself into.
We all face our own troubles and trials. We must learn not to judge others but to offer a helping hand when someone is drowning in despair, unable to see a way out. No one is immune; today you judge, and tomorrow you might find yourself in the same trap.
I brought my mum to live with me. She’s 80 now and used to live in a small village outside of Durham, in an old cottage with a sagging roof. She couldn’t manage on her own anymore—her health was declining, her legs were giving out, and her hands trembled. I saw her fading away on her own and decided to move her to my city apartment. But I had no idea what a burden I was taking on or how drastically it would change my life.
At first, everything was smooth, like clockwork. Mum settled into my three-bedroom flat in Canterbury, and she seemed to keep to herself. She didn’t interfere in my affairs or make noise—she stayed in her room, which I had set up with love and care. I tried to make sure she was comfortable: a soft bed, a warm blanket, and a small TV on the table. She only needed to leave for the bathroom, toilet, and kitchen—I made sure she was surrounded by convenience. I looked after her diet, cooked only healthy meals as the doctors advised: low fat, minimal salt, everything steamed. I bought the expensive, essential medicines myself, out of my salary. Her pension was a pittance, not enough for anything.
But after a few months, things went off the rails. Mum grew tired of city life—monotonous, grey, like the concrete walls around us. She started asserting her ways, picking at me for every little thing, blowing up arguments out of nothing. Whether it was dusting too late, cooking the soup wrong, or forgetting her favourite tea—everything was wrong, everything annoyed her. Then came the manipulations—she played on my sympathy, sighed theatrically, repeatedly claimed life was better in the village than in my “prison.” Her words cut like a knife, but I kept silent, gritting my teeth, trying not to react to provocation.
My patience was wearing thin. I was exhausted from endless criticisms, from the yelling, from her constant dissatisfaction. It got to the point where I started taking tranquillisers to calm my nerves and stood by the door after work, unable to bring myself to go inside. Behind that door wasn’t comfort but a battlefield—where every day I was losing. My life became a nightmare with no way out.
Sending Mum back to the village? That’s not an option. She wouldn’t survive there—the house is falling apart, there’s no heat or amenities. And how could I send her away, leaving her to fate? What would friends say? I can already see their judgmental looks, hear the whispers behind my back: “She left her mum… How shameful!” I’m embarrassed even to think about it, ashamed in front of people, and myself. But I don’t have the strength anymore.
The situation is like a tight knot I can’t untangle. I’m drained, exhausted, confused. How do I live with her under the same roof? How do I deal with her stubbornness, this wall of complaints and grievances? How do I calm her without losing myself? I’m at a dead end, and each day I sink deeper into this hopelessness.
Have you ever experienced such stories? How do you live with elderly relatives whose characters are like sharp stones against which your patience breaks? How do you keep from going mad when a loved one becomes your greatest challenge? Please, share—I need some light at the end of this dark tunnel…
