I made myself a promise: if my mum passes away, I will follow her…
I was only a few years old when I first heard the word “challenge.” At that time, I didn’t understand what it meant, but now, at 44, I can confidently say my entire life has been a series of challenges, each one tougher than the last. If not for my mum, I would have given up long ago. Without her, I am nothing. So, I’ve made a decision that might sound crazy, but it’s mine: when she goes, I will too.
My name is Sophie. When I was born, the doctors didn’t give my parents much hope. I have a rare form of systemic arthritis that worsens each year, robbing me of movement, ability, and hope. At three years old, I realized I wasn’t like the other kids. They could run, jump, and climb, while I sat on the bench watching. When I tried to stand, the pain pierced me to tears.
My parents abandoned the idea of having another child. Their lives revolved around me. My dad, a brilliant mathematician, gave up his academic career and took on any job he could find so my mum and I would not go without. He worked twenty-hour days, managed to buy two flats, one to rent out and another for us to live in. He even built a country house and became co-owner of a business with his brother, all to secure my future.
He passed away when I was twenty. Mum was left, the only one. She is strong, unyielding. A beautiful woman who never complains. Mornings are for exercises, then breakfast, treatments, hospital visits, errands, and consultations—she is always by my side. Not for fame, not from duty, but out of love.
I studied at home. Later, I learned English, German, Italian, and French. I work as a translator online. Occasionally, I’m invited to seminars, and mum is always with me. We are inseparable. She is not just my mother; she is my universe.
Yes, I am in pain. Yes, every move is an effort. No, I will never have children. I won’t marry. I won’t play Chopin. I won’t become a doctor as I once dreamed. But I live because my mum lives.
We never discuss the future. It’s our unspoken agreement. I know one day she will leave. That’s how life is. And I know my cousin Olivia is supposed to take care of me—mum has arranged everything, from legal documents to the flat and her will. I stumbled upon this by accident. I said nothing to them because it would mean admitting the truth. And the truth is: I do not want to live without my mum.
I don’t fear pain. I don’t fear being alone. I fear emptiness. And that emptiness will arrive with her last breath. Then I will make my choice. There are many ways to leave gracefully—without pity, without a cry, without drama.
But as long as mum is here, I will live. For her. For her smile. For her to know every morning that I am still here. And in that lies the entire meaning.
