My life should have been happy. My husband, William, is the man I always dreamed of—kind, dependable, always there to support me. We are expecting a child, a miracle given we’re both in our forties. But a dark cloud hangs over our joy, and that cloud is my mother’s illness.
At the start of the year, doctors gave her the grim diagnosis—Alzheimer’s. My mother, Margaret Elizabeth, raised me alone after my father vanished before I was born. I couldn’t abandon her. After long discussions with William, we decided to bring her to our flat in Manchester. William was steadfast:
*There’s room enough, Emma. She’s your mother, and she’s elderly—what harm could she do?*
We made her a cosy bedroom, took her to regular doctor’s visits, and kept track of her medicine. Yet, my pregnancy, which I saw as a blessing, brought her no joy. I’d hoped she’d be thrilled about her future grandchild—she’d always longed for a family line to continue. Instead, her behaviour grew more unsettling.
Sometimes she’d stare at me with hollow eyes and snap,
*Who are you? Get out of my house!*
When we tried to calm her, she’d shriek,
*Don’t you dare tell me what to do! This is my home, and you’re nothing here!*
She’d rearrange furniture, hide my things, even shove me out the door as if I were a stranger. I bore it—until she demanded I carry heavy bags or move wardrobes. My patience wore thin. I tried explaining I couldn’t lift weight while pregnant, but she’d only hiss,
*Ungrateful wretch! I gave up everything for you, and now you won’t even lift a finger!*
No matter how many times I reminded her about the baby, her gaze stayed distant. She didn’t remember. Didn’t understand. The hopelessness of it made me weep at night, each sob aching in my unborn child.
William was at his limit too. Mother confused him with fictional men—calling him Robert, then Thomas, then names that made no sense. She’d recite my childhood to him as though he were a stranger, not my husband. Recently, he admitted through gritted teeth,
*Emma, I’m hanging by a thread. A little more of this, and I’ll snap. She drives me mad, and I’m afraid one day I’ll—do something awful.*
I’m barely holding on myself. But what terrifies me most is the baby. I’m twenty-two weeks along, and nightmares play in my mind. What if Mother decides my child is a stranger? What if she tries to rid us of it? Sends it to an orphanage, leaves it in the streets—or worse, things I can’t bear to imagine. These thoughts choke me, steal my sleep, poison the joy of motherhood before it begins.
A friend, seeing my tears, suggested,
*Emma, put her in a care home. Professionals will look after her, and you’ll all breathe easier.*
I flinched. How could I do that to Mother? She devoted her life to me, sacrificed everything so I’d grow up happy. To discard her now would be betrayal, blackest ingratitude. Yet, deep down, I wonder—what if it’s the only way? What if it’s best for her, the baby, our crumbling family?
I’m torn between duty and fear. Do I send her away, where she might fare better, or keep living in this nightmare, risking my child’s safety and my own sanity? I don’t know. And not knowing is breaking my heart.
