“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 offer advice. I’m not looking for pity—I’m just tired. Tired of feeling trapped in a situation I can’t escape.
I’m 53 years old. I still work, and retirement feels a lifetime away. My mum, who’s 80, lives with me. I wouldn’t say she’s bedridden or entirely helpless—she isn’t. She manages well enough: washes herself, cooks simple meals, pops to the shops, even takes walks in the park. But in a way… she runs on my energy. Like she’s tapped into my very last reserves.
When I come home from work in the evening, drained to the bone, I sit with her over a cup of tea and listen as she recounts her day. All I want after is to retreat to my room, turn on the telly, and drift off.
But no. Mum expects conversation. Not just chatter—lectures. As if I’m still a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl.
*”If only you’d listened to me back then and married Stephen instead of that no-good man of yours,”* she says, again and again. *”You’d be happy now, with children, a proper life—not alone and unwanted. By anyone but me.”*
*”Be grateful you still have your mother. Cherish it. Look after me.”*
Yes, I have no children. My husband… left. Or rather, I suppose he simply couldn’t take it. We 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 mother, renting a flat when you own a three-bedroom house was pure madness.
And now, here I am, in that house—with Mum. We each have our own bedroom, but the kitchen and living room are shared. And so is the tension.
Every move I make is scrutinised. Every single one.
*”Why are you home so late?”*
*”Why did you buy that rubbish? We don’t need it.”*
*”Why haven’t you washed my things? Changed the bedsheets?”*
*”You forgot to feed the cat—again.”*
And never—not once—do I hear *”thank you,”* *”well done,”* or *”you look nice today.”* No kindness. Just criticism. Morning to night. Day after day.
I can’t move out. My wages are laughable—barely enough to scrape by. I’d never afford my own place. Even if I found a tiny flat, my conscience wouldn’t let me. What if something happened to Mum while I wasn’t there?
But truthfully? Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. Yes, it sounds awful. Yes, she’s my mother. I know I owe her everything. But some days, I just want to vanish—even for a weekend. To have no one nagging, nitpicking, dissecting my every choice.
I’m exhausted. I’m lonely, even though I’m never alone. I’m stuck—body and soul—in a trap I didn’t choose.
Where’s the line between duty and self-sacrifice?
Do I even have the right to feel this way?
I don’t know. But I do know this can’t go on forever.
Sometimes, the hardest kindness is learning to be kind to yourself.
