I brought my elderly mother to live with me, and now I regret it. But I can’t send her back, and I feel ashamed in front of my friends.
Today, I feel the need to pour out my heart on paper, sharing the deeply personal story that weighs on me like a heavy stone. I need advice—wise and measured—on how to navigate this situation that I’ve found myself trapped in.
We all have our troubles and challenges. We must learn to support others without judgment, offering a helping hand to those drowning in despair and unable to see a way out. No one is immune to such circumstances—one day, you judge, and the next, you might find yourself caught in the same web of fate.
I took my mother in. She’s reached the age of 80 and used to live in a village near York in an old house with a sagging roof. Her health started failing, with her legs giving way and her hands trembling. I saw her fading away alone and decided to move her into my city flat. But I had no idea of the burden I was about to take on, nor how dramatically it would change my life.
Initially, things ran smoothly. Mum settled into my three-bedroom apartment in Manchester, maintaining the peace. She kept to herself, rarely interfered in my affairs, and remained quietly in the room I had lovingly prepared for her. I ensured her comfort: a soft bed, a warm blanket, a small TV on the table. She only needed to leave the room to use the bathroom or kitchen—I tried to surround her with comfort. I monitored her diet, cooking nutritious meals as advised by her doctors: minimal salt, only steamed food, and no fats. The medicines, essential and costly, I bought myself. Mum’s pension offered little financial relief, just pennies.
Yet after a few months, everything took a turn for the worse. Mum grew weary of city life—it felt monotonous and drab as the concrete surroundings. She began setting her own rules, picking fights over trivial matters. I didn’t dust on time, the soup wasn’t right, or I forgot her favorite tea. Everything I did annoyed her. Then came the emotional manipulation—she played the sympathy card, sighing theatrically and repeating that life in the village was better than in my “prison.” Her words cut deep like a knife, but I held on, gritted my teeth, and tried not to rise to her provocations.
My patience was wearing thin. I was drained by her endless complaints and constant criticism. It got to the point where I resorted to calming pills, and after work, I hesitated before entering my own home. Behind the door awaited not peace, but a battlefield—a daily defeat. My life had turned into a nightmare with no escape.
Sending Mum back to the village isn’t an option. She wouldn’t survive there—the house is practically falling apart, lacking warmth and basic utilities. How could I abandon her to face such conditions? And what would my friends say? I can already sense their critical glances and whispers: “She’s abandoned her own mother… What a disgrace!” I’m ashamed even to think about it, embarrassed in front of others and myself. But I’m at my wit’s end.
This situation feels like a tight knot I can’t untie. I’m exhausted, empty, and lost. How can I live with her under the same roof? How can I manage her stubbornness, this wall of criticism and resentment? How can I calm her without losing myself? I’m at an impasse, sinking deeper into despair with each passing day.
Have you ever faced such a situation? How did you cope with elderly relatives whose personalities feel like sharp stones that shatter your patience? How do you stay sane when your loved one becomes your greatest challenge? Please share your insights—I need a light at the end of this dark tunnel.
