“I’m 53, and My Mother Is 80”: What It’s Like to Live with an Ageing Mother
I’ve decided to share my story because perhaps someone will recognise themselves in it. Or maybe someone will have advice to offer. I’m not after pity—I’m just exhausted. Tired of living in a trap I can’t escape.
I’m 53. I’m still working, and retirement feels miles away. My mother—she’s 80. She lives with me. I won’t say she’s bedridden or helpless. No. She’s quite independent—washes herself, cooks, goes to the shops, even takes walks in the park. But how can I put it? She feeds off my energy. Like she’s plugged into my battery.
I come home from work in the evening—drained, completely worn out. I sit with her, sip tea, listen to how her day went. All I want is to shut myself in my room, turn on the telly, and sink into sleep.
But no. Mum expects conversation. Not just any conversation—lectures. As if I’m a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl again.
*”If you’d only listened to me and married Thomas instead of that man of yours…”* she says, over and over. *”You’d be happy now, with children and a career, not alone and unwanted. Except by me.”*
*”Be grateful you still have your mother. Appreciate it. Take care.”*
Yes, I don’t have children. My husband… left. Or, more accurately, I think he just couldn’t take it. We got married, moved in together. And exactly one month after Mum came to live with us, he filed for divorce. I can’t blame him. Because to my mother, renting a flat when you own a three-bedroom house was unthinkable.
So now I live in that three-bedroom house—with Mum. We each have our own room, but the kitchen and living room are shared. And so is the tension.
Every move I make is under scrutiny. 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 clothes? Why haven’t you changed the bedding?”*
*”You forgot to feed the cat again.”*
And you’ll never hear a *”thank you”*, *”well done”*, *”you look lovely”*, or *”go and rest.”* Just criticism. From dawn till dusk. Day after day.
I can’t move out. My salary is peanuts. I couldn’t afford my own place. Even if I found a room—my conscience wouldn’t let me. What if something happens to Mum while I’m not there?
But if I’m being honest, sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. Yes, it sounds awful. Yes, she’s my mother. I know. I’m grateful for my life. But sometimes I just want to disappear. Even for a couple of days. Just to have no one nagging, judging, picking at every little thing.
I’m tired. I’m lonely, even though I’m not alone. I’m trapped in a cage I can’t escape, not physically, not emotionally.
Where’s the line between duty and sacrifice?
Do I even have the right to feel this way?
I don’t know. But I do know I can’t keep going like this.
