I brought Mum to live with me, but a month later, I took her back home—and now everyone thinks I’m a monster.
When I first decided to move Mum from her little village into the city to live with me, it felt like the only right thing to do. She wasn’t getting any younger, living alone in that old cottage where everything was getting harder to manage—the stubborn wood stove, the well freezing over in winter, and neighbours either passing away or growing just as frail. I thought she should be near me, safe and warm, with proper comforts. But after a month, I got behind the wheel and drove her right back to that village. And now, suddenly, I’m public enemy number one to friends and even some family.
*How could you do that?* they all said.
*She’s your mother! You can’t just take her in like a stray dog and then change your mind!*
*What if your kids did this to you one day? You’ll get what’s coming to you!*
I heard it all—the advice, the guilt trips, the snide remarks. Some to my face, others behind my back, but word always gets around.
*What goes around comes around*, they told me. *Fix this before it’s too late.*
But none of them walked a day in my shoes. None of them lived with Mum, side by side, twenty-four hours a day. None of them saw how, in just a matter of days, my lively, kind-hearted mum became a stranger—crying, blaming, sitting in silence for hours, refusing to eat. Just me.
At first, it was manageable. I set her up in her own room, bought her new slippers and pyjamas, framed her favourite photos, even brought a few of her potted plants from the village. I wanted her to feel at home. But instead of gratitude, all I got was distance. She sat in that room like I’d dragged her to a stranger’s house, like I wasn’t her daughter but some sort of prison warden. I’d bring her meals, remind her to shower—even though she’d always been perfectly capable back home. There, she was sharp, independent. Here? It was like something inside her had broken.
A few more days passed, and then she started… rearranging *my* flat to suit *her*. Moving my pots, plates, spices. Reorganising the bathroom, right down to my makeup. I bit my tongue, told myself she just needed time to adjust. But then came the crying. Every evening. Quiet at first, then full-blown sobbing. She’d sit in the armchair and whisper:
*I’m nobody here… This isn’t my place… I don’t want to live like this…*
I felt like I’d become the villain—when all I’d ever wanted was to help.
*I want to die in my own home. In the village. Where everything’s mine. Where I know every corner. Where the walls know me…*
I tried convincing her to stay—told her she’d struggle alone, that she had us, her granddaughter, all the support she could need. But no. Each day got worse. And I realised: if I didn’t take her back, I’d lose her completely. Either she’d lose herself to grief or break so badly there’d be no coming back.
So I packed her things, loaded the car, and drove her home. She didn’t say a word the whole trip. Not until we turned onto that familiar lane leading to her cottage—then, softly:
*Thank you.*
Now, Mum calls me almost every day. Cheerful. At peace. She tells me about planting cucumbers, making jam, how Mrs. Thompson from the next village over comes by for tea. And I can hear it—she’s happy. Alone? Yes. But happy.
And me? Well, I’m stuck 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 comfort zone but letting them stay where their heart is. Not every parent wants to live with their children in their old age—especially when they’ve got a home full of memories, walls that hold their past.
If my mum’s at peace in her own house, then I did the right thing. Let people think what they want. The only thing that matters? She’s smiling again.
