**Diary Entry – 14th May**
I’ve reached my limit. Where can I send my elderly mother?
I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. At first, it seemed manageable—just a difficult phase, something love and patience would get us through. But now, I’m teetering on the edge—emotionally, physically, morally. Some might judge me for saying this. Others might understand because they’ve lived it. This isn’t about excusing myself—just about putting the weight down for a moment.
My name is Eleanor, the younger daughter in our family. My older brother, Thomas, is three years ahead of me. Mum had us late—Thomas at forty-two, me at forty-five. After years of trying for children, we were her miracles. She poured everything into us—love, warmth, a proper upbringing. Even with her being older than the other mums at school, she never let us feel we were missing out.
When I was seventeen, Dad passed. For Thomas and me, it was devastating. For Mum, it was the end of the world. I did what I could to steady her while Thomas left for university, then moved to Australia—career, family, a new life. That left just the two of us. Me, and Mum.
Years have gone by. Mum’s seventy-eight now, and I’m still here. But she isn’t just Mum anymore. She requires constant care—round the clock. And I’m drowning.
She forgets everything. Leaves the iron on, the stove burning. Once, she put the kettle in the fridge and the milk in the cupboard. I’ve begged her not to help—it only makes things harder—but she tries anyway. Out of kindness, out of habit, out of guilt. And I hate correcting her because I see how it cuts her when she realises she can’t manage.
The worst moment came last week. She left the house and didn’t return. Didn’t remember where she was going. Didn’t recognise her own street. We searched for hours. I rang everyone, scoured the neighbourhood, nearly lost my mind. A friend spotted her clear across town—cold, confused, terrified. And I was just… empty.
This isn’t an exception anymore. It’s the norm. The unending tension, the dread that something’s gone wrong. I’m on alert every second. I don’t sleep through the night. I can’t travel. I’m not living—I’m surviving. I’m not a daughter anymore; I’m a carer. And it’s eating me alive.
I have my own family too—a husband, children, grandchildren. I love them. They used to be my world. But now, all I carry is Mum. And I feel myself breaking. I’m exhausted. Burnt out. Some nights, I cry because I don’t know how to keep going.
I can’t even say the words aloud: “Where can I send her?” The phrase alone feels like betrayal. As if I’m not her flesh and blood, just some stranger giving up. But there are care homes, assisted living—places where she’d be safe. Why can’t I consider it without choking on guilt?
Because that’s how we were raised. Because a mother is sacred. Because she carried me, raised me, protected me. Now, it’s my duty to do the same. But duty shouldn’t be a life sentence. Feels like I’ve been handed a stone and told, “Carry it until you collapse.”
Thomas sends money, calls, offers sympathy. But he’s an ocean away. He doesn’t see Mum crying at midnight, lost in the kitchen, calling me by her own mother’s name. He isn’t the one running down the street in panic when she wanders off. He doesn’t sweep up the plates she’s dropped. His life is calm. Mine is this—trapped in this house, this endless cycle.
I don’t know what to do. I just want to breathe. Wake up without dread. Visit my daughter without fearing Mum will leave the gas on. I’m not asking for much—just a scrap of my own life back. A little quiet. A little freedom.
Maybe someone will call me a terrible daughter. Say I should carry her till the end. Fine. Let them live like this first—a year, five, ten. Then they can tell me what it’s like to be alive but never allowed to rest.
I don’t want to abandon her. I want her safe. Cared for. I want to love her, not fear her. But right now—I can’t do this anymore. If there’s somewhere she’d be better off… shouldn’t I at least consider it?
I don’t know. Truly, I don’t. But I can’t go on like this.
**Lesson:** Duty is heavy, but so is guilt. Sometimes the kindest choice is the one that breaks your heart.
