When I first brought Mum from the village to live with me in the city, I was sure it was the right thing to do. She wasn’t getting any younger, living alone in that old cottage where everything was becoming harder—the stubborn woodstove, the well freezing over in winter, the neighbours either gone or just as aged as her. I thought she’d be better off close by—safe, warm, cared for. But after a month, I packed her things into the car and drove her back to that same village. Now, to half the people I know, I might as well be a monster.
*How could you do that?* they asked. *She’s your mother! Not some stray dog you can return when you change your mind!*
*What if your children did the same to you one day? You’ll get what’s coming to you!*
I heard it all—the lectures, the judgment, the whispers behind my back. *Karma,* they said. *Make it right before it’s too late.*
But none of them had walked in my shoes. None had spent every hour of the day with her, watching as my lively, warm-hearted mum became a stranger—weeping, silent for hours, refusing meals, accusing me of imprisoning her.
At first, I tried to make her comfortable. I set up her own room with fresh slippers, a new nightdress, her favourite photos, even brought a few potted plants from her garden. But instead of settling in, she only grew colder, sitting there like a guest in a stranger’s house, as if I weren’t her daughter but a jailer. I brought her meals, reminded her to bathe—though she’d always managed perfectly well at home. Here, though, something had broken inside her.
After a few days, she began rearranging *my* home. She moved my pots, my spices, the bottles in the bathroom—even my makeup. I bit my tongue, told myself it was just adjustment. But then came the tears. Silent at first, then great, shuddering sobs in the evenings.
*I’m nobody here,* she’d say. *This isn’t my place. I don’t want to live like this.*
I felt like a villain, though all I’d wanted was to help.
*I want to die in my own home,* she whispered. *Where everything knows me. Where the walls have heard my stories.*
I begged her to stay—for her safety, for her granddaughter’s sake, for the help we could give. But she only grew worse. And I realised: if I didn’t take her back, I’d lose her completely—either to despair or to something beyond repair.
So I folded her clothes into suitcases, loaded them into the boot, and drove her home. She didn’t speak the whole way. Only when we turned onto the lane to her cottage did she finally say—*Thank you.*
Now she calls me almost every day, cheerful again, telling me about the cucumbers she’s planted, the jam she’s making, the neighbour who pops round for tea. She sounds happy. Alone, yes, but happy.
And me? I’m left with the label of *the heartless daughter.* But here’s the truth: I don’t regret it. Because sometimes love means loosening your grip, not tightening it. It means letting someone find peace where *they* belong—not where *you* think they should.
If my mother smiles again in her own home, then I did right by her. Let the rest think what they will.
