My name is Eleanor. I’m thirty-six. Behind me lies one failed attempt at building a family, years of inner struggle, and an overwhelming sense of guilt toward the most precious person in my life—my mother. Now, when fate seemed to offer me another chance at happiness, I faced a terrifying choice that tore me apart.
“Ellie, I just don’t know what to do…” I said to my friend Natalie over the phone, staring out the window at the grey London sky. “Andrew is wonderful—kind, strong, reliable. With him, I feel like a woman again. He wants me to move in with him… But what do I do with Mum? You know how she is…”
Yes, Natalie knew. Everyone close to me knew my mother wasn’t just a “difficult relative.” Over the years, she’d become possessive—dominant, sharp-edged, demanding constant attention, yet achingly vulnerable. When I introduced her to Andrew, everything went wrong.
From the start, Mum acted oddly. She called Andrew by the wrong names, pretended to be confused despite her sharp memory. Then she “accidentally” spilled a plate of salad on his lap. Andrew walked out. Mum immediately faked a heart attack—I called an ambulance. Once they left, she went to bed calmly, while I sat in the kitchen until dawn, sobbing, wondering why this was happening to me.
The last time we spoke, Andrew was blunt:
“Ellie, you need to consider a care home. They’ll look after her. You’ll finally breathe. We can start our life together.”
I didn’t answer. But deep inside, memories surfaced.
At twenty-two, I’d fallen for my colleague, Victor. Mum and I shared a two-bed flat in Manchester. She despised him. So we eloped, and he moved in—with *us*.
What followed was hell. Mum called me from one room, Victor from the other. I felt torn apart. Tears became my daily routine. A year later, he left.
“You’re a good woman, Ellie. But as long as your mother is in your life, you won’t find happiness,” he said before walking away.
I stayed alone. I accepted it—until Andrew. Until someone offered me love again. And now, another dead end.
We visited a care home together. It was clean, orderly, well-kept. But the atmosphere… It felt cold. Elderly residents sat in silence, staring at nothing. Some walked the garden paths, but no one smiled. I couldn’t help but ask a staff member:
“Why does everyone seem so sad?”
“Because they’re alone. Abandoned. Their families don’t visit or even call. Yet they wait—by the windows, at the gates…”
I stayed quiet on the drive back, but inside, I was breaking. Images flashed: Mum tucking me in when I was ill, rushing from work to fetch my medicine, carrying the weight of my life on her shoulders. Yes, she was difficult. At times unbearable. But she was *my mother*.
When we pulled up to my house, Andrew asked,
“So, when do we start preparing her for the move?”
I turned to him and said,
“Never. I won’t betray her. That would be cruel. She gave me her life. She isn’t perfect, but I owe her everything. If you want to be with me, you’ll have to find a way with her. If not—we’re not meant to be.”
I walked away. He never called. Not the next day, not the next week. He made his choice.
And I made mine. Maybe I’ve lost love again. Maybe I’ll stay alone. But I couldn’t live knowing my mother wept in some sterile room because I traded her for someone else’s convenience. That isn’t love. That isn’t me.
Perhaps one day, I’ll love again. But I know this much: my conscience will stay clear. And my heart will stay alive.
