**Diary Entry – 12th June**
My life could have been so happy. My husband, William, is everything I ever dreamed of—kind, dependable, always there to support me. We’re expecting a child, a miracle at our age, both of us in our forties. But a dark cloud hangs over our joy—my mother’s illness.
Earlier this year, the doctors delivered the devastating news: she has Alzheimer’s. My mum, Margaret Hardwick, raised me alone—my father vanished before I was even born. I couldn’t abandon her. After long discussions with William, we decided to bring her to our flat in Manchester. He reassured me, “We’ve got the space, Lucy. She’s your mum, and she’s elderly—what harm could she do?”
We made her a comfortable room, took her to regular doctor’s appointments, managed her medication. But when we shared news of the baby—something I saw as a blessing—she didn’t react as I’d hoped. I thought she’d be overjoyed at the idea of a grandchild, something she’d always wanted. Instead, her behaviour became more unsettling by the day.
Sometimes she looks at me with blank eyes and snaps, “Who are you? Get out of my house!” When we try to calm her, she only shouts louder, “Don’t tell me what to do! This is *my* home!” She rearranges furniture, hides my things, even pushes me out the door like a stranger. I endured it until she demanded I carry heavy bags or help move furniture. I explained I couldn’t lift things while pregnant, but she just spat, “Ungrateful brat! I gave up everything for you!”
She doesn’t remember. Doesn’t understand. Some nights, I cry until my body shakes, each sob aching in my unborn child.
William is at his limit too. She mistakes him for strangers—calling him Robert, or David, or names I don’t recognise. She talks to him like he’s some acquaintance, not my husband. Last week, he confessed through gritted teeth, “Lucy, I can’t take much more. I swear, one of these days, I’ll snap.”
I’m barely holding on myself. But what terrifies me most is my baby. I’m twenty-two weeks along, and my mind fills with nightmares. What if Mum decides the baby isn’t family? What if she tries to get rid of it—drop it at an orphanage, or worse? The thoughts suffocate me, stealing sleep, poisoning what should be a time of joy.
My best friend, seeing me in tears, suggested, “Put her in a care home, Lucy. Professionals will look after her, and you’ll all breathe easier.”
The words made me flinch. How could I do that to her? She gave me everything. To abandon her now would be betrayal. But deep down, I wonder—is it the only way? Would she be safer there? Would *we*?
I’m torn between duty and fear. Do I send her away for her own good, or keep living like this, risking my child and my sanity? I don’t know. And not knowing is tearing me apart.
**Lesson:** Love shouldn’t demand sacrifice at the cost of your own survival. Sometimes, the kindest choice is the hardest one to make.
