When I was seventeen, my dad upped and left. Mum was slogging away at two jobs for next to nothing, and we pinched pennies on just about everything. Fruit and sweets were reserved for Christmasand even that felt like a treat from the Queen herself. I didnt have the heart to ask Mum for anything. Instead, I tried to earn my own keep. Ive got a younger sister, and together with Mum, we did all we could to make sure she never felt hard done by.
Sadly, the saga didnt end with Dad shuffling off this mortal coil. Mum landed in hospital with a stroke, and from then on, she couldnt walk. She got her disability allowance, but even with Her Majestys finest benefits, it was nowhere near enough. It was a rough ride, but I clung to the hope that things would get better.
My university days had to be put on iceI was suddenly chief breadwinner. Looking after an ill mother and my little sister was like running a three-ring circus and being the only clown. Offers of help floated in, but I brushed them off. Mum had always been warm and straight-talking before the stroke. Afterwards, she was different.
It started with her moaning about fate kicking her shins, and soon graduated to grumbling about me and my sister. Apparently, we couldnt cook, couldnt clean, and spent money like drunken sailors.
I tried to let her comments wash over me. She was poorly, after all, and I understood why she was struggling. But, honestly, her attitude stung. I was running myself ragged for her, and she acted as if Id done her wrong. Friends kept suggesting I hire a carer for Mum and get a better job. Sure, I couldve. Places I could earn a proper wage werent exactly thin on the ground, but then whod look after Mum? Imagine itMum with two daughters, and some stranger comes in to care for her. No, ta.
Still, the complaints kept piling up, as predictable as British rain. Mum scolded us over every single purchase, as if we were buying caviar and pearls with our Tesco Clubcards.
I held my tongue for ages, but one incident flipped everything on its head. I got illa blinding headache, fever, and a cough that wouldve embarrassed an old smoker.
I barely slept a wink and decided to see the doctor in the morning. My sister clocked the state I was in, hugged me, and asked me to promise Id go get checked. But Mum, true to form, announced I didnt need any medicine. Youre young; youll bounce back. Im much worse off than you. She said if I spent money on the doctor, Id be wasting it all on what was probably just a cold. She accused me of not caring if she died.
I sat there, silent tears running down my face. Honestly, I was done in. Id given up my education and was breaking my back at work for Mums sake, even though other paths were open to me. Eventually, exhaustion got the better of me, and I yelled at her. Let rip with everything on my mind.
Turns out, the doctor diagnosed pneumonia. He said I should be in hospital, but there was no way on earth Id leave my sister with Mum. I bought the necessary medicine and went straight to my mates house.
Charlotte opened the door, took one look at me, and told me off for wandering about instead of being tucked up in bed. We talked for hours. I told her about the situation with Mum and asked if shed help me find a carer. I needed somewhere to stay, toocouldnt handle another night at home.
Charlotte said I could move in with her, and suggested I pop home to collect my things. Back at the house, Mum greeted me with a verbal onslaught the moment I walked through the door. Not a word about how I was feelingjust more obsessing over money. I fed her, headed for my room, and decided that was it. I was moving out.
Charlotte came throughshe found a lovely carer and made room for me at her place. I got a new job and stopped visiting Mum. Some might think Im callous, but I did everything for her. Never so much as a thank you. Was it all worth it? I suppose time will telllifes still ahead of me.
Every month, I send money to cover Mums care, plus a bit extra. Victoria, the lady now looking after her, says Mum hardly remembers us these days. She never calls on our birthdays, though my sister and I still do. But honestly, that isnt what matters now. Ive managed to switch careers, and soon Ill be moving out of Charlottes flat. My sister and I are planning to rent our own place together. She supports me, too, and says, You should look after your parents, but not when its slowly destroying you.I used to feel guilty every morning, the ache of responsibility knotting tighter each time I pictured Mum hunched in her armchair, Victoria clucking around her. But slowly, as the days melted into weeks, I found myself breathing more easily. The world, for the first time in years, felt bigger than the four damp walls of our old living room.
My sister and I keep our own rituals now: dinner at the end of each long shift, stories traded from our different corners of the city, her laughter filling the kitchen as we make toast for supper, cheap jam sticking to our fingers. Weve learned to be gentle with each other and, strangely, with ourselves. Sometimes theres guilt, sharp and cold, but mostly now theres relief, and the fragile thrill of possibility.
As I lie in bed at night, the sounds of the city breathing through the open window, I remember that seventeen-year-old who never asked for anything, who bore the storm in silence. I wish I could tell her: kindness, even to your own heart, isn’t weakness. That caring for someone doesnt mean dwindling to nothing.
Theres no grand happy ending, but there isat lasta measure of peace. Our lives are our own again, patched together with quiet courage, and the hope that, one day, it will feel like enough.
