**Diary Entry**
I’ve reached my limit. Where can I send my elderly mother?
I don’t know how much longer I can endure this. At first, I thought I could manage—that it was just a rough patch, that love and patience would get us through. But now, I’m standing on the edge, emotionally, physically, and mentally. Some may judge me for saying this. Others might understand because they’ve been there. I don’t want to justify myself—I just need to get it off my chest.
My name is Emily, and I’m the second child in my family. My older brother, William, is three years my senior. Mum had us later in life—William when she was forty-two, me at forty-five. My parents struggled to conceive, so when we finally arrived, Mum treated us like miracles. We were her whole world. Though she was older than other mums, she gave us everything—love, warmth, a good upbringing.
When I was seventeen, Dad passed away. For William and me, it was devastating—but for Mum, it was the end of everything. She barely recovered, and I did my best to support her. William went off to uni, then moved to America—building a career, starting a family. That left just me and Mum.
Years have passed. Mum’s seventy-eight now, and I’m still here. Only she isn’t just Mum anymore. She needs constant care. Round-the-clock. And I’m drowning.
She forgets simple things—leaves the iron on, walks away from the stove, puts the kettle in the fridge and milk in the cupboard. I’ve told her a hundred times not to help—I’ll handle it. But she keeps trying, out of kindness, habit, wanting to feel useful. It only makes things harder. And I can’t bring myself to say, *”Mum, stop,”* because I see how it crushes her to feel helpless.
The worst happened recently—Mum went out and didn’t come back. She forgot where she was going, where she lived. We searched for over three hours. I called everyone, combed the streets, nearly lost my mind. A friend spotted her across town and rang me. Mum was confused, freezing, terrified. I was exhausted, shattered, empty.
This isn’t rare anymore—it’s normal. The constant tension, the fear something will happen, the weight of responsibility. I can’t relax for a second. I wake at every noise. I don’t travel. I don’t live—I just exist. I’m not a daughter anymore. 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, Mum is on my shoulders. And I’m running out of strength. I’m tired. Burnt out. I cry at night because I don’t know how to go on.
I can’t even say it out loud: *”Where can I send Mum?”* The word *”send”* sounds like betrayal. Like I’m not her daughter but some stranger. But there *are* care homes. Retirement communities. Places where she’d be safe. Why does even *thinking* about it fill me with guilt?
Because that’s how we were raised. Because *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. A noose. Yet it feels like a stone’s been tied around my neck, and I’ve been told, *”Carry it until you collapse.”*
William sends money, calls, sympathises. But he’s across the ocean. He doesn’t hear Mum sobbing at night, doesn’t see her getting lost in her own street, mixing up my name with Grandma’s. He isn’t the one sprinting through the neighbourhood in panic when she doesn’t come home. He doesn’t sweep up the plates she drops. He lives in peace. I’m the one here. Trapped.
I don’t know what to do. I just want to breathe. Wake up without dread. Visit my daughter without worrying Mum will burn the house down. I’m not asking for much—just a bit of life. A bit of quiet. A bit of *me.*
Some might say I’m a terrible daughter. That I should carry Mum until the end. But let them live like this for a year. Five. Then tell me what it’s like to be alive yet have no right 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. If there’s a place where she’ll be better off, where professionals can help her… maybe it’s worth considering?
I don’t know. I *really* don’t. But I can’t keep going like this.
**Lesson:** Duty is heavy, but so is regret. Sometimes the kindest choice feels like cruelty—until you realise it’s love in another form.
