I made a vow to myself: if my mum goes, I’ll follow her…
I was just a little girl when I first heard the word “challenge.” I didn’t understand it then, but now, at 44, I can confidently say my life has been a series of challenges, each more daunting than the last. Were it not for my mum, I would have given up long ago. Without her, I’m nobody. So I’ve made a decision that may seem crazy to some, but it’s mine: when she’s gone, I’ll go too.
My name is Sophie. When I was born, the doctors didn’t give my parents much hope. I have a rare form of systemic arthritis that, with each passing year, tightens its grip on my joints, stealing my freedom of movement, abilities, and hope. I was three when I realised I wasn’t like the others. Children around me could run, jump, and climb. As for me, I was sitting on the bench, watching. Occasionally, I tried to stand, but the pain was so intense it reduced me to tears.
My parents abandoned the idea of having a second child. They dedicated their lives to me. My father, a brilliant mathematician, left his career behind, taking on any work he could find to ensure mum and I wanted for nothing. He worked twenty hours a day so he could buy us two apartments—one to rent out, the other to live in. He built a cottage and became a co-owner of a company with his brother—all to secure my future.
He passed away when I was twenty. Mum was left alone. The only one. Strong and unyielding. A beautiful woman who never complained. Each day began with exercise, then breakfast, treatments, drips, dressings, doctor visits, translations, meetings, calls, consultations—she was by my side through it all. Not for praise, not out of obligation, but out of love.
I was home-schooled. Later, I learned English, German, Italian, and French. I work as a translator. Online. Sometimes I’m invited to seminars, and my mum is always with me. We are one. She’s not just my mum; she’s my universe.
Yes, it hurts. Yes, every movement is a struggle. No, I will never have children. I won’t get married. I won’t play Chopin. I won’t become the doctor I dreamt of being. But I live. Because my mum lives.
We never speak of the future. It’s our silent agreement. I know that one day she will go because that’s how life works. And I know that my cousin, Olivia, is supposed to care for me—my mum has discussed and arranged everything with her, the paperwork, the will, the flat. I found out by accident. But I said nothing. Because to say something would be to tell the truth. And the truth is that I don’t want to live without my mum.
I’m not afraid of pain. I’m not afraid of loneliness. I’m afraid of emptiness. And that emptiness will come with her final breath. Then I’ll make my choice. There are many ways to go with dignity—without pity, without cries, without drama.
But while my mum is here, I will live. For her. For her smile. So that every morning she knows I’m still here. And in that is the whole meaning.
