I took my mum to live with me, but after a month, I drove her back home—and now everyone thinks I’m a monster.
When I decided to move Mum from her village to the city and bring her into my house, I truly believed I was doing the right thing. She wasn’t getting any younger, living alone in that old cottage where every year became harder—the stove was temperamental, the well froze over in winter, and the neighbours had either passed away or grown just as frail. I thought she should be close to me—safe, warm, in proper conditions. But a month later, I was behind the wheel, taking her back to that same village. And now, it seems, I’ve become public enemy number one to friends and even some family.
*”How could you do such a thing?”* they’d say.
*”She’s your mother! Not some stray dog you can take in and then cast out!”*
*”What if your own children did this to you one day? You’ll get what’s coming to you!”*
I heard it all. The lectures, the guilt-trips, the sly remarks—some to my face, others behind my back but loud enough to reach me.
*”What goes around comes around,”* they warned. *”Fix this before it’s too late.”*
But none of them had been in my shoes. None of them had lived with my mother day and night. None of them saw how, in just a few short days, the lively, kind woman I knew became a stranger—weeping, blaming me, sitting in silence for hours, refusing to eat. Only I saw that.
At first, I made it as comfortable as I could for her. I set up her own room, bought new slippers, a nightdress, even brought some of her favourite potted plants from the cottage. I wanted her to feel at home. Instead, I got cold indifference. She sat in that room like I’d brought her to some stranger’s house, like I wasn’t her daughter but her jailer. I’d bring her meals, remind her to shower (though she’d managed fine in the village), but in the city—something in her just shut down.
After a few days, she started… rearranging *my* home. Moved my pots, plates, spices. Shifted everything in the bathroom, even my toiletries. I bit my tongue, told myself it was just adjustment. But then came the tears. Every evening—soft at first, then full-blown sobs. She’d sit in the armchair and murmur:
*”I’m nothing here… This isn’t my place… I can’t live like this.”*
I felt like a villain. And all I’d wanted was to help.
*”I want to die in my own house, in the village. Where everything’s mine. Where I know every corner. Where the walls know me.”*
I begged her to stay. Told her she’d struggle alone, that we’d be near—her granddaughter, too, always there to help. But no. It only got worse. And I realised: if I didn’t take her back, I’d lose her completely. She’d either waste away from grief or break beyond repair.
So I packed her things, loaded the boot, and drove her home. She didn’t say a word the whole way. Only when we turned onto the lane to her house did I hear it: *”Thank you.”*
Now, Mum calls me almost every day. Cheerful. Content. Tells me she’s planted cucumbers again, made her favourite jam. The old lady from the next village comes over for tea. I can hear it in her voice—she’s happy. Alone, yes. But happy.
And me? I’m left with the label of *”heartless daughter.”* But you know what? I don’t regret it. Because sometimes love isn’t about holding on—it’s about letting go. Not dragging someone into your idea of comfort, but letting them stay where they find peace. Not every parent wants to live with their children in their final years. Especially when they’ve got a home of their own, a life soaked into the very walls.
If my mother’s found her peace there, then I did the right thing. Let them think what they want. All that matters is she’s smiling again.
