**A Mother’s Forgotten Love, and My Fear for My Child**
My life could have been perfect. My husband, Edward, is everything I ever dreamed of—kind, dependable, always there to support me. We’re expecting a baby, a miracle for us both in our forties. But a dark cloud hangs over our happiness, and its name is my mother’s illness.
At the start of the year, doctors diagnosed her with Alzheimer’s. My mum, Margaret, raised me alone after my father vanished before I was born. I couldn’t abandon her. After long discussions, Edward and I decided to move her into our flat in Manchester. He reassured me:
*”We’ve got the space, love. She’s your mum, and she’s getting on—what harm could she do?”*
We made her a cosy room, took her to regular doctor’s visits, managed her medication. Yet my pregnancy, which I’d thought would bring joy, only seemed to unsettle her. I expected her to be thrilled about becoming a grandmother—she’d always wanted a legacy. Instead, her behaviour grew increasingly frightening.
Sometimes she stares at me with hollow eyes and snaps, *”Who are you? Get out of my house!”* When we try to calm her, she shrieks, *”Don’t you dare tell me what to do! This is my home, not yours!”*
She rearranges furniture, hides my belongings, even shoves me out as if I’m a stranger. I bore it—until she demanded I lift heavy shopping bags or help move wardrobes. I explained my pregnancy meant I couldn’t, but she’d only snarl, *”Ungrateful wretch! I sacrificed everything for you, and you won’t lift a finger!”*
No matter how many times I reminded her, her eyes stayed blank. She doesn’t remember. Doesn’t understand. The hopelessness makes me sob at night, each cry aching in my unborn child.
Edward is fraying too. Mum mistakes him for strangers—calls him *”Simon”* or *”Thomas,”* even makes up names. She recounts my childhood to him like he’s some acquaintance, not my husband. The other day, he admitted through gritted teeth, *”Emma, I’m at my limit. One more outburst, and I might… say something awful.”*
I’m breaking too. But worse is the fear for my baby. I’m twenty-two weeks along, and nightmares plague me. What if Mum decides my child is a stranger? Would she try to get rid of her? Send her away, leave her somewhere—I can’t bear to think of what else might cross her mind. The thoughts choke me, steal my sleep, poison the joy of motherhood.
A friend, seeing my tears, suggested, *”Emma, put her in a care home. Professionals would look after her, and you’d all breathe easier.”*
I flinched. How could I do that to Mum? She gave me everything. Abandoning her now would be betrayal, the worst ingratitude. But deep down, I wonder—is it the only way? For her? For my child? For our crumbling family?
I’m torn between duty and terror. Do I find her a home where she might be safer, or stay in this hell, risking my baby and my sanity? I don’t know. And not knowing is tearing me apart.
