Once, I thought my life would be blessed. My husband, Edward, was everything I had ever dreamed of—kind, steadfast, always there to hold me up. We were expecting a child, a miracle, given we were both past forty. Yet a shadow loomed over our joy, and its name was my mother’s illness.
At the start of the year, the doctors delivered the dreadful news—Alzheimer’s. My mother, Margaret Whitmore, had raised me alone, without a father, who’d vanished long before I was born. Abandoning her was unthinkable. After many late-night talks, Edward and I agreed to bring her to our home in Manchester. He reassured me, “There’s room enough, Lily. She’s your mother, and she’s frail—what harm could she do?”
We made her a cosy room, took her to doctors, kept her medicines in order. But my pregnancy, which I’d thought would be a blessing, brought her no joy. I had hoped she’d be over the moon about a grandchild—she’d always spoken of wanting the family line to continue. Instead, her behaviour grew more unsettling by the day.
Sometimes, she’d stare at me with empty eyes and snap, “Who are you? Get out of my house!” When we tried to calm her, she’d shout, “Don’t you dare tell me what to do! This is my home, not yours!” She rearranged furniture, hid my things, even shoved me toward the door like a stranger. I bore it all—until she demanded I lug heavy bags or help shift the wardrobe. I pleaded that pregnancy meant no heavy lifting, but she’d only hiss, “Ungrateful wretch! I gave my life for you, and you won’t lift a finger!”
No matter how often I reminded her, her eyes stayed blank. She didn’t remember. Didn’t understand. The hopelessness of it left me weeping at night, each sob aching in the unborn child within me.
Edward was near breaking point too. Mum mistook him for strangers—calling him “William” or “Henry,” spinning tales of my childhood as if he were some passing acquaintance. Once, through gritted teeth, he admitted, “Lily, I can’t take much more. She drives me to the edge—I fear one day I’ll lose my temper and… do something awful.”
I was fraying too. But my deepest terror was for the baby. At twenty-two weeks, nightmares haunted me. What if Mum decided my child didn’t belong? Would she try to cast it out? Dump it in an orphanage, or worse—I couldn’t bear to think. The dread choked me, stealing sleep, poisoning what should have been a time of joy.
A friend, seeing my distress, suggested, “Lily, put her in a care home. Professionals could tend to her, and you’d all breathe easier.” The words stung. How could I betray her? She’d given everything for me—how could I abandon her now? Yet a voice whispered: What if it’s the only way? For her. For the baby. For us, before we shatter completely?
Torn between duty and fear, I don’t know the answer. My heart is splintered with the weight of it.
