**Diary Entry**
I won’t send my mum to a care home—because she doesn’t deserve that ending. My name’s Eleanor. I’m thirty-six. Behind me lies one failed attempt at building a family, years of inner turmoil, and an overwhelming guilt towards the most precious person in my life—my mother. Now, just when fate seemed to offer me another shot at happiness, I’m faced with a choice that tears me apart.
“Ellie, I just don’t know what to do…” I confided in my friend Victoria over the phone, staring out at the dreary London sky. “William’s wonderful. He’s kind, strong, dependable. With him, I feel like a woman again. He wants me to move in with him… But where does that leave Mum? You know how she is…”
Yes, Victoria knew. Everyone close to me did. Mum wasn’t just an “overly attached relative.” She’d become possessive—controlling, sharp-tongued, demanding constant attention, yet heartbreakingly fragile. When I introduced her to William, things unravelled instantly.
From the start, Mum played games. She called William by the wrong names, pretended to be confused—though her memory’s sharp as ever. Then she “accidentally” tipped her salad onto his lap. William stood up and left. Mum immediately faked a heart attack—I called an ambulance. The moment they were gone, she went to bed as if nothing happened. I sat at the kitchen table till dawn, sobbing, wondering what I’d done to deserve this.
The last time we spoke, William was blunt:
“Ellie, you need to consider a care home. She’ll be looked after, you’ll finally breathe, and we can start our lives.”
I didn’t reply. But deep inside, a memory surfaced—one I’d buried long ago.
When I was twenty-two, I fell for a colleague, Daniel. Mum and I lived in a two-bed flat, and she was vehemently against him. Still, Daniel and I eloped, and he moved in with us.
That’s when the nightmare began. Mum would call me from one room; Daniel, from the other. I felt torn in half. Tears became my daily ritual. A year later, he left.
“You’re lovely, Ellie. But as long as your mum’s in your life, you’ll never be happy,” he said before walking away.
I stayed. And I resigned myself—until William came along. Until someone offered me love again. Now, once more, I’m at a dead end.
We visited a care home together. Everything was spotless, tidy, well-maintained. But the atmosphere… It felt cold inside. Elderly residents sat blankly, staring into space. Some wandered the gardens, but no one smiled. I couldn’t take it.
“Why does everyone here seem so sad?” I asked a carer.
“Because they’ve been abandoned. Their families don’t visit or even call. Yet they wait—every day, by the window, at the gates…”
On the drive home, I stayed quiet. Inside, I was breaking. Images flashed through my mind: Mum tucking me in when I was ill, rushing from work to fetch medicine, carrying my world on her shoulders alone. Yes, she’s difficult. Yes, she’s unbearable at times. But she’s my mother.
As we pulled up outside, William asked, “So, when do we start preparing her to move?”
I turned to him and said, “Never. I won’t betray her. That would be cruel. She gave me her whole life. Maybe she’s not perfect, but I owe her everything. If you want to be with me, you’ll have to find a way with her. Otherwise, we’re finished.”
I walked away. He didn’t call. Not the next day, not the next week. I suppose he made his choice.
And I’ve made mine. Maybe I’ll have bad luck with men again. Maybe I’ll end up alone. But I won’t live knowing my mother’s crying in some facility because I traded her for someone else’s comfort. That isn’t love. That isn’t me.
One day, I might fall in love again. But I’ll always know one thing—my conscience is clear. And my heart’s still alive.
