“I’m 53, and my mum is 80”: What it’s like living with an ageing mother
I wanted to share my story because maybe someone will recognise themselves in it. Or perhaps someone might have advice. I’m not after pity—just exhausted. Exhausted from living in a trap I can’t escape.
I’m 53. I’m still working, and retirement feels a world away. My mum—she’s 80. She lives with me. I won’t say she’s bedridden or helpless. Far from it. She’s quite independent—washes herself, cooks, pops to the shops, even takes walks in the park. But, how to put it… she runs on my energy. Like she’s plugged into my battery.
I come home from work in the evening—drained, completely knackered. I sit with her, have a cuppa, listen to how her day went. Then all I want is to shut myself in my room, switch on the telly, and fall asleep.
But no. Mum expects a chat. Not just a chat, but a lecture. As if I’m still some fifteen-year-old schoolgirl.
*”If only you’d listened to me and married Jeremy, not that man of yours…”* she says, repeating the same old tune.
*”You’d be happy now, with kids and a proper career, instead of alone and good for nothing. Except to me.”*
*”Be grateful you’ve still got your mum. Appreciate it. Look after me.”*
Yes, I don’t have children. My husband… left. Or more accurately, I reckon he just couldn’t take it. We got married, moved in together. And exactly one month after my mum came to live with us, he filed for divorce. Can’t blame him. Because to my mum, renting a flat when you ‘own a perfectly good three-bed house’ was utter madness.
So now, here I am, in that three-bed house—with Mum. We’ve each got our own room, but the kitchen and sitting room are shared. And worse—so is the tension.
Every move I make is under a microscope. Every single one.
*”Why are you back so late?”*
*”What did you buy that rubbish for? We don’t need it.”*
*”Why haven’t you washed my things? Why haven’t you changed the sheets?”*
*”You’ve forgotten to feed the cat again.”*
And not once do I hear *”thank you,”* *”well done,”* *”you look nice,”* or *”take a rest.”* Just criticism. Morning to night. Day after day.
I can’t move out. My salary’s a joke—barely enough to scrape by. No chance I could afford my own place. Even if I found some tiny bedsit, my conscience wouldn’t let me. What if something happened to Mum while I wasn’t there?
But honestly? Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. Yes, that sounds awful. Yes, she’s my mother. I know. I’m grateful for everything she’s done. But sometimes, I just want to disappear. Even for a couple of days. No one nagging, no one picking apart every little thing.
I’m tired. I’m lonely, even though I’m never alone. I’m trapped, body and soul, with no way out.
Where’s the line between duty and sacrifice?
Do I even have a right to feel this way?
I don’t know. But I know I can’t go on like this.
