My life could have been happy. My husband, James, is everything I’ve ever dreamed of—kind, dependable, always there when I need him. We’re expecting a child, a miracle really, given we’re both in our forties. But a dark cloud looms over our happiness, and that cloud has a name: my mother’s illness.
At the start of the year, doctors delivered the grim diagnosis—Alzheimer’s. My mum, Margaret Elizabeth, raised me alone after my father vanished before I was even born. I couldn’t abandon her. After long discussions with James, we decided to bring her to our flat in Manchester. James was supportive:
“Plenty of room, love. She’s your mum, and she’s not exactly spring chicken—what harm could she do?”
We fixed up a cosy room for her, took her to regular doctor’s appointments, made sure she took her meds. But my pregnancy, which I’d seen as a blessing, somehow didn’t bring her joy. I’d hoped she’d be thrilled about her future granddaughter—she’d always gone on about keeping the family line going. Instead, her behaviour grew more frightening.
Sometimes she’d stare at me with empty eyes and snap,
“Who are you? Get out of my house!”
When we tried to calm her, she’d start shrieking:
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do! This is my home, and you’re nobody here!”
She’d rearrange furniture, hide my things, even push me out the door like a stranger. I put up with it—until she started demanding I haul heavy shopping bags or help shift the wardrobe. That’s when my patience ran out. I tried explaining I couldn’t lift heavy things while pregnant, but all I got was:
“Ungrateful brat! I gave up everything for you, and you won’t even lift a finger!”
I’d repeat that I was expecting, that I needed to be careful, but her eyes stayed blank. She doesn’t remember. Doesn’t understand. The hopelessness of it has me sobbing at night, each hiccup of grief echoing through my unborn baby.
James is at his limit too. Mum mixes him up with imaginary people, calling him Simon, then Michael, then some bizarre names. She tells him about my childhood like he’s a casual acquaintance, not my husband. The other day, he admitted through gritted teeth:
“Emily, I’m hanging by a thread. One more push and I’ll snap. She drives me up the wall, and I’m scared one day I might… do something awful.”
I’m at breaking point myself. But what terrifies me most is my baby. I’m twenty-two weeks along, and nightmare scenarios play in my head. What if Mum decides my child isn’t hers? What if she tries to get rid of them? Drops them at an orphanage, leaves them somewhere—I can’t even bear to think what else might cross her mind. These thoughts choke me, steal my sleep, poison the joy of motherhood waiting just out of reach.
A friend, seeing me in tears, suggested:
“Emily, put her in a care home. Professionals will look after her, and you’ll all breathe easier.”
I flinched at the words. How could I do that to Mum? She gave up everything for me, sacrificed so I’d have a happy life. To ditch her now would be betrayal, pure cruelty. But deep down, I wonder—what if it’s the only way? What if it’s better for everyone? For Mum, for the baby, for our family, cracking under the strain?
I’m torn between duty and fear for the future. What do I do? Send Mum somewhere she might be better cared for, or keep living in this nightmare, risking my baby’s safety and my own sanity? I don’t know. And not knowing is tearing me apart.
