I can’t take it anymore. Where can I send my elderly mother?
I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. When this all started, I thought I could manage—that it was just a rough patch, that love and patience would get us through. But now I’m standing on the edge—emotionally, physically, morally. Some might judge me for saying this. Others might understand because they’ve lived it themselves. I’m not here to justify myself—just to speak my truth.
My name is Eleanor. I’m the second child in my family. My older brother, James, is three years my senior. Mum had us later in life—James when she was 42, me at 45. My parents struggled for years to have children, so when we finally came along, Mum treated us like miracles. We were her entire world. Even though she was older than the other mums, she gave us everything—love, warmth, a proper education.
When I was seventeen, Dad passed. It shattered us, but for Mum, it was the end of the world. She barely kept herself together, and I did what I could to hold her up. James left for university, then moved to America—building a career, starting a family. It was just Mum and me.
Years have passed. Now Mum is 78. And I’m still here—but she isn’t just my mother anymore. She needs constant care, around the clock. And I can’t do it anymore.
She forgets the simplest things. Leaves the iron on, the stove burning, puts the kettle in the fridge and the milk in the cupboard. I’ve told her a hundred times, *Don’t help me—I’ll do it*. But she keeps trying—out of kindness, habit, wanting to feel useful. Only now, it’s not help—it’s a danger. And I hate saying, *Mum, stop*, because I see the hurt in her eyes, the helplessness.
Then came the worst. She went out and never came back. She forgot where she was going, forgot where she lived. We searched for hours. I called everyone, combed the streets, nearly lost my mind. A friend spotted her on the other side of Manchester and rang me. Mum was confused, freezing, terrified. And I—drained, broken, empty.
This isn’t rare anymore. It’s normal. The constant dread. The fear that something will happen. The weight of it all. I can’t relax, not for a second. I wake at every noise. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t *live*—I survive. I’m not her daughter anymore—I’m her carer. And it’s killing me.
I have my own family. A husband, children, grandchildren. I love them—I *lived* for them. But now, Mum is all I can carry. I’m exhausted. Burnt out. I cry at night because I don’t know how to keep going.
I can barely bring myself to say it: *Where can I send her?* Just the word—”send”—sounds like betrayal. Like I’m some stranger, not her own flesh and blood. But there *are* care homes. Proper facilities. Places where she’d be looked after. Why does even thinking about it fill me with guilt?
Because that’s how we were raised. Because motherhood is sacred. Because she gave me life, raised me, protected me. Now it’s my *duty* to care for her. But duty shouldn’t be a death sentence. It isn’t a burden you bear until you collapse.
James sends money, calls, sympathises. But he’s an ocean away. He doesn’t see Mum cry at night, lost in her own home, mistaking me for my grandmother. He doesn’t panic when she doesn’t return from the chemist. He doesn’t sweep up the plates she’s dropped. He lives in peace. And I—I’m here. Trapped.
I don’t know what to do. I just want to *breathe*. To wake without dread. To visit my daughter without fearing Mum will burn the flat in my absence. I’m not asking for much. Just a little life. A little quiet. A little *self*.
Maybe someone will call me a terrible daughter. Say I should carry her on my back till the end. But let them live like this for a year. Two. Five. Then tell me what it’s like—being alive but never allowed to rest.
I don’t want to abandon her. I want her *safe*. Cared for. Loved—not feared. But right now—I *can’t*. If there’s a place where she’d be better off, where they’d look after her, keep her from harm—maybe I should consider it?
I don’t know. I truly don’t. But I can’t go on like this.
