I brought my mum to live with me, but a month later, I drove her back home—now everyone thinks I’m a monster.
When I first decided to move Mum from her village cottage into my city flat, I thought I was doing the right thing. She wasn’t getting any younger, living alone in a house that grew harder to manage each year—the heating was unreliable, the well froze in winter, and the neighbours were either long gone or just as elderly. I believed she’d be better off near me—somewhere warm, safe, where I could look after her. But after just a month, I got back in the car and took her home. Now, it seems, I’ve become public enemy number one to friends and even some family.
*How could you do that?* they said.
*She’s your mother! Not some stray dog to take in and then toss back out!*
*If your kids treated you this way, you’d get what you deserve!*
I heard it all—the lectures, the jabs, the muttered judgements. Some said it to my face, others behind my back, but the words reached me either way.
*Karma’ll get you*, they warned. *Fix it before it’s too late.*
But none of them had walked in my shoes. None of them had spent twenty-four hours a day living with my mother. None of them saw how, in just days, she went from a lively, kind woman to a stranger—weeping, silent for hours, refusing meals. No one but me.
At first, it was bearable. I set up a proper room for her—new slippers, fresh pyjamas, framed photos from home, even brought a few of her potted plants from the cottage. I wanted her to feel welcome. Instead, she treated my flat like a prison, staring at me as if I were some jailer, not her daughter. I’d bring her meals, remind her to shower—even though back in the village, she’d been perfectly independent. Here, though, something broke in her.
Then she started rearranging everything. My pots, my dishes, even my toiletries moved about without so much as a word. I bit my tongue, told myself it was just adjustment. But then came the crying—first quiet, then full-blown sobbing. She’d sit in the armchair, whispering, *I’m nothing here. This isn’t my home. I can’t live like this.*
I felt like a villain. I’d only wanted to help.
*I want to die in my own house, in the village. Where everything’s mine, where I know every corner, where the walls know me.*
I begged her to stay, promised she wouldn’t be alone, that her granddaughter and I would always be there. But it only got worse. I realised then: if I didn’t take her back, I’d lose her completely—either to grief or something far worse than distance.
So I packed her things and drove her home. She didn’t speak a word the whole way—until we turned onto her lane. Then, softly: *Thank you.*
Now, she calls me almost every day. Happy. Calm. Talks about planting tomatoes, making jam, having tea with Evelyn from the next village over. I can hear it in her voice—she’s content. Alone, maybe, but content.
Me? I’m the heartless daughter now. But you know what? I don’t regret it. Because sometimes love isn’t about holding on—it’s about letting go. Not dragging someone into your idea of comfort, but letting them find peace where they belong. Not every parent wants to spend their last years with their children. Especially when home isn’t just a place—it’s the life they’ve built, the memories in every brick.
If Mum’s found her smile again, then I did the right thing. Let them think what they want. She’s happy. That’s all that matters.
