My mother forgot me, and I fear for my child.
My life could have been happy. My husband, Jonathan, is the man I always dreamed of—kind, steady, always there to support me. We’re expecting a child, a miracle for us both in our forties. But a dark cloud hangs over our joy, and its name is my mother’s illness.
At the start of the year, the doctors gave her a terrible diagnosis—Alzheimer’s. My mum, Margaret Whitmore, raised me alone, without a father who vanished before I was born. I couldn’t abandon her to fate. After long talks with Jonathan, we decided to bring her to our flat in Manchester. He said,
“There’s enough space, Emily. She’s your mother, and she’s getting on—what harm could she do?”
We set up a cosy room for her, took her to regular appointments, made sure she took her medicine. But my pregnancy, which I thought would be a blessing, somehow left her cold. I’d hoped she’d be thrilled about her future grandchild—she always wanted the family to go on. Instead, her behaviour grew more frightening.
Sometimes she stares at me with empty eyes and snaps,
“Who are you? Get out of my house!”
When we try to calm her, she shrieks,
“Don’t tell me what to do! This is my home, and you’re nothing!”
She moves the furniture, hides my things, even pushes me out the door as if I’m a stranger. I tried to endure it, but when she started demanding I carry heavy bags or help shift the wardrobe, I snapped. I explained I couldn’t lift things—not in my condition—but she only hissed,
“Ungrateful brat! I gave up everything for you, and you won’t even help me!”
I told her again and again—I’m pregnant, I need to be careful—but her eyes stayed blank. She doesn’t remember. Doesn’t understand. The hopelessness makes me sob at night, and every shuddering breath feels like a wound in my unborn baby.
Jonathan is at his limit too. Mum mistakes him for strangers—calls him Robert, William, even names that make no sense. She tells him stories about my childhood as if he’s some distant acquaintance, not my husband. The other day, he admitted through gritted teeth,
“Emily, I can’t take much more. Any longer, and I’ll lose it. She drives me mad, and I’m scared I’ll—do something awful.”
I’m hanging by a thread myself. But my worst fear is for the baby. I’m twenty-two weeks along, and nightmares play in my head. What if mum decides my child is a stranger? What if she tries to get rid of it? Drops it at an orphanage, leaves it in the street—or worse? The thought chokes me, steals my sleep, poisons the joy of motherhood before it’s even begun.
A friend saw me crying and said,
“Emily, put her in a care home. Professionals will look after her, and you’ll all breathe easier.”
The words made me flinch. How could I do that to mum? She gave me everything, sacrificed it all so I’d grow up happy. To abandon her now would be betrayal, the blackest ingratitude. But deep down, I wonder—what if it’s the only way? What if it’s better for everyone—for her, for the baby, for our cracking family?
I’m torn between duty and fear. Send her away to a place that might help her—or keep living in this nightmare, risking my child, my sanity? I don’t know. And not knowing is breaking my heart.
