“I can’t take it anymore. Where can I send my elderly mother?”
I don’t know how much longer I can last. At the start, it all seemed manageable—just a difficult phase, something love and patience would get us through. But now I’m at my limit—emotionally, physically, morally. Some might judge me for saying this. Others might understand because they’ve lived it. I’m not sharing my story to justify myself, just to finally say it out loud.
My name is Emily, and I’m the second child in the family. My older brother, James, is three years ahead of me. Our mother had us later in life—James at forty-two, me at forty-five. For years, our parents struggled to have children, so when we finally came along, Mum treated us like miracles. We were everything to her. And despite being older than other mums, she gave us all she could—care, warmth, a good education.
When I was seventeen, Dad passed away. It shattered me and James, but for Mum, it was the end of the world. She barely recovered, and I did my best to support her. James went off to university, then moved to the States for work, a career, a family. It was just Mum and me.
Years passed. Now Mum is seventy-eight. And I’m still here. But she’s not just my mum anymore. She needs constant care. Around the clock. And I can’t keep up.
She forgets the simplest things—leaving the iron on, the hob burning, putting the kettle in the fridge or milk in the cupboard. I’ve told her again and again: don’t help, I’ll do it myself. But she keeps trying—out of kindness, habit, a need to be useful. Only, it doesn’t help. It makes things harder. And I feel guilty saying, “Mum, stop,” because I see the hurt in her eyes when she realises she’s helpless.
Then came the worst moment yet. Mum went out and didn’t come back. She’d forgotten where she was going, even where she lived. We searched for over three hours—calling friends, checking the neighbourhood, frantic. A friend spotted her on the other side of town. Mum was confused, freezing, terrified. I was drained, broken, hollow.
This isn’t rare anymore. It’s the norm. The endless tension. The fear that something will happen. The crushing responsibility. I can never relax. I wake at every sound. I don’t go anywhere. I’m not living—I’m surviving. I’m not a daughter; I’m a carer. And it’s slowly destroying me.
I have a family too—a husband, children, grandchildren. I love them. I’ve lived for them. But now, it’s all on me—Mum. And I’m losing strength. I’m exhausted. Burned out. I cry at night because I don’t know what else to do.
I can barely bring myself to say it: “Where can I send her?” Just the word—*send*—feels like betrayal. Like I’m not her child, but a stranger. But care homes exist. Retirement communities with proper care. Specialised places. Why can’t I think about them without guilt?
Because of how we were raised. Because mothers are sacred. Because she gave me life, raised me, protected me. Now it’s my duty to stay. But duty shouldn’t be a life sentence. A cross to bear. Yet I feel like a stone’s been tied around my neck with the command: “Carry it until you collapse.”
James helps—sends money, calls, sympathises. But he’s across the ocean. He doesn’t see Mum crying at night, forgetting where she is, mixing my name with Grandma’s. He’s not the one racing through the streets when she doesn’t come home. He’s not sweeping up broken plates she’s dropped. He lives in peace. I live here. In this house. In this endless loop.
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 down. I’m not asking for much—just a little life. A little quiet. A little of myself back.
Some may judge me. Say I’m a bad daughter. That I should carry her in my arms until the end. But let them live like this first—a year, two, five. Then tell me what it’s like to be alive but forbidden to rest.
I don’t want to abandon her. I want her to be safe—cared for, protected. I want to love her, not fear her. But right now, I can’t do this alone. And if there’s somewhere she’d be better off—somewhere they’d look after her—maybe it’s worth considering?
I don’t know. Truly, I don’t. But I can’t go on like this.
*Sometimes the greatest act of love isn’t holding on, but letting go—so both of you can finally find peace.*
