My mother forgot me, and now I fear for my child.
My life should have been so happy. My husband, William, is everything I ever dreamed of—kind, dependable, always there to support me. We’re expecting a child, a miracle, really, since we’re both over forty. But a dark shadow looms over our joy, and that shadow is my mother’s illness.
At the start of the year, the doctors gave her a terrible diagnosis—Alzheimer’s. My mother, Margaret, raised me alone after my father vanished before I was even born. I couldn’t abandon her. After long discussions with William, we decided to bring her to our home in Manchester. He reassured me:
“There’s plenty of room, Clara. She’s your mother, and she’s elderly. What harm could she do?”
We set up a cosy room for her, took her to regular doctor’s visits, made sure she took her medicine. But my pregnancy, which I’d thought a blessing, strangely didn’t bring her any joy. I’d expected her to be over the moon about her future grandchild—she’d always wished for family to carry on. Instead, her behaviour grew more frightening by the day.
Sometimes, she stares at me with empty eyes and snaps:
“Who are you? Get out of my house!”
When we try to calm her, she shrieks:
“Don’t tell me what to do! This is my home, not yours!”
She rearranges furniture, hides my things, even pushes me out the door as if I’m a stranger. I endured it, but when she demanded I carry heavy bags or help move wardrobes, my patience ran thin. I tried explaining that I can’t lift heavy things while pregnant, but she only spat back:
“Ungrateful wretch! I gave my life for you, and you won’t even help me!”
I repeated that I was expecting, that I needed to be careful, but her gaze stayed hollow. She doesn’t remember. Doesn’t understand. The hopelessness makes me sob at night, each tear feeling like a knife twisting in my unborn child’s heart.
William is at his limit too. She mistakes him for strangers—calls him George one moment, Thomas the next, even names that make no sense at all. She tells him stories about my childhood as if he’s some acquaintance, not my husband. The other day, he admitted through gritted teeth:
“Clara, I can’t take much more. She’s driving me mad. What if I snap and do something awful?”
I’m barely holding on myself. But what terrifies me most is the fear for my child. I’m twenty-two weeks along, and dreadful thoughts haunt me. What if my mother decides my baby isn’t hers? What if she tries to get rid of him? Sends him away, leaves him somewhere—I can’t bear to imagine worse. These nightmares choke me, steal my sleep, poison the happiness I should be feeling.
A friend, seeing my distress, suggested:
“Clara, put her in a care home. Professionals will look after her, and you can all breathe again.”
The words stung. How could I do that to my mother? She gave everything for me, sacrificed so I could grow up happy. To abandon her now would be the worst betrayal. But deep down, I wonder—what if it’s the only way? What if it’s better for her, for my child, for our crumbling family?
I’m torn between duty and fear. Do I send her away, where she might be cared for properly, or stay trapped in this hell, risking my baby’s safety and my own sanity? I don’t know. And not knowing is tearing me apart.
