Saturday, 10th June
I could never put Mum in a care home—she doesn’t deserve that ending.
My name is Eleanor. I’m thirty-six. One failed attempt at marriage behind me, years of silent battles, and this enormous, sometimes suffocating guilt toward the most precious person in my life—my mother. And now, when fate seemed to offer me another chance at happiness, I’m torn apart by an impossible choice.
*”Ellie, I just don’t know what to do…”* I said to my friend Beatrice over the phone, staring out at the grey London sky. *”Oliver’s wonderful. Kind, steady, dependable. With him, I feel like a woman again. He’s asked me to move in with him… But what do I do with Mum? You know how she is…”*
And Beatrice did know. Everyone close to me understood—Mum wasn’t just *”an overly attached relative.”* Over the years, she’d become possessive: sharp-tongued, demanding, always needing attention, yet heartbreakingly fragile. When I introduced her to Oliver, everything unravelled.
At dinner, Mum started right away. Called him by wrong names—pretending to be confused, though her memory’s sharp as a tack. Then “accidentally” tipped her salad onto his lap. Oliver left. Mum clutched her chest, gasping—I called an ambulance. The moment they were gone, she went calmly to bed. I sat at the kitchen table until dawn, sobbing, wondering why this was happening to me.
The last time we spoke, Oliver was blunt:
*”Ellie, you need to consider a care home. She’d be looked after, you could breathe, we could finally live.”*
I didn’t answer. But something deeper in me stirred—a memory surfacing.
At twenty-two, I’d fallen for a colleague, William. We lived with Mum in a tiny flat in Cheltenham. She despised him. We eloped anyway—he moved in. Then the nightmare began. Mum called for me from one room, William from the other. I was pulled in half. Tears became routine. A year later, he left.
*”You’re lovely, Ellie. But while your mum’s in your life, happiness won’t be.”*
I stayed. Accepted it. Until Oliver. Until someone reached for me again. Now—another dead end.
We visited a care home. Spotless, orderly. But the air was… chilled. Elderly sat motionless, staring blankly. A few wandered the gardens, unsmiling. I asked a carer, *”Why is everyone so sad?”*
*”Because they’re abandoned. Families don’t visit, don’t call. Yet they wait. Every day, by the windows, by the gates…”*
The drive home was silent. Inside, I was breaking. Flashes of Mum tucking me in during fevers, rushing from work to fetch medicine, carrying my world alone. Yes, she’s difficult. Unbearable, sometimes. But she’s *my* mother.
When we parked, Oliver said, *”So, when do we prepare her to move?”*
I turned to him. *”Never. I won’t betray her. It would be cruel. She gave me her life. Imperfect, but I owe her everything. If you want me, you learn to live with her. If not—we’re done.”*
I walked away. He never called. Not the next day, not a week later. His choice, I suppose.
And mine? Maybe I’ll be alone again. Maybe no man will ever stay. But I couldn’t live knowing Mum cried in some sterile room because I traded her for convenience. That’s not love. That’s not *me.*
Perhaps I’ll love again. But I’ll do it with a clear conscience. And a heart that hasn’t hardened.
