When I decided to move my mum from the countryside to the city and bring her into my home, I truly believed it was the right thing to do. She wasn’t getting any younger, living alone in that old cottage where everything was becoming harder to manage—the temperamental stove, the well freezing over in winter, neighbours either long gone or just as elderly. I thought she needed to be near me—safe, warm, with proper comforts. But after just a month, I drove her right back to that village. Now, it seems, I’ve become public enemy number one among friends and even some family.
“How could you do such a thing?” they said.
“She’s your mother! Not some stray dog you can return when it doesn’t suit you!”
“What if your own children treated you this way? You’ll get what’s coming to you!”
I heard it all—advice, reproaches, bitter remarks. Some to my face, others whispered behind my back, but the words reached me just the same.
Karma’s a bitch, they said. Fix it before it’s too late.
Yet none of them had walked a day in my shoes. None had lived with my mother, hour after hour, watching as the lively, kind-hearted woman I knew became someone else altogether—weeping, blaming, sitting in silence, refusing meals. No one saw it but me.
At first, it was bearable. I set up a room just for her, bought new slippers, a nightdress, arranged her favourite photos, even brought a few potted plants from her garden to make her feel at home. Instead of gratitude, she grew distant, sitting in that room like a stranger in a borrowed house. I brought her meals, reminded her to shower—though she’d managed perfectly well before. In the village, she’d been sharp and independent. Here, something inside her seemed broken.
Then she started rearranging *my* home. Moved every pot, plate, spice jar. Shifted my toiletries in the bathroom. I bit my tongue, told myself it was just adjustment. But then came the tears. Every evening, first quiet, then desperate, sitting in her chair murmuring,
“I’m nothing here… This isn’t my home… I don’t want this life.”
I felt like a jailer, though all I’d meant to do was help.
“Let me die in my own house,” she’d say. “Where everything’s mine. Where the walls know me.”
I begged her to stay. Told her she’d struggle alone. That I’d be there, her granddaughter would visit, help would always come. But no. Each day, she withered further. And I realised—if I didn’t take her back, I’d lose her completely. Either she’d lose her mind to grief or break beyond repair.
So I packed her things, loaded the boot, and drove her home. She sat silent the whole way. Not a word. Only when we turned onto the lane to her cottage did she whisper,
“Thank you.”
Now, she calls me nearly every day. Cheerful. At peace. Tells me about planting marrows, making jam. Mrs. Thompson from the next village drops by for tea. I hear her laugh again. Alone, yes—but happy.
And me? I’m left with the label of the “heartless daughter.” But here’s the truth—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 allowing them to be where their soul rests. Not every parent wants to live out their years under their child’s roof—not when their own walls hold a lifetime of memories.
If my mother found her peace back in that cottage, then I did right by her. Let them think what they will. What matters is she smiles again.
