I made a promise to myself: if my mother were to leave this world, I would follow her…
I was just a few years old when I first heard the word “trial.” I didn’t understand its meaning then, but now, at 44, I can confidently say my life has been a series of trials, each more difficult than the last. If it weren’t for my mother, I would have given up long ago. Without her, I am nothing. So, I’ve made a decision that might seem crazy to some, but it’s mine: when she’s gone, so will I be.
My name is Sophie. When I was born, the doctors offered my parents no hope. A rare form of systemic arthritis would increasingly restrict my joints year by year, taking away my freedom of movement, abilities, and hope. At three years old, I realized I was different. Other children ran, jumped, and climbed. I just sat on a bench, watching. Occasionally, I tried to stand, but the pain pierced me to tears.
My parents decided against having another child. They devoted their lives to me. My dad, a brilliant mathematician, left academia and took on any work he could find so that my mum and I wouldn’t lack anything. He worked twenty-hour days so he could buy us two flats—living in one and renting out the other. He built a cottage and became a co-owner of a business with his brother, all to secure my future.
He passed away when I was twenty. My mum was left alone. The only one. Strong, unyielding, and beautiful, never one to complain. Morning exercises, breakfast, treatments, IV drips, medical visits, translations, meetings, calls, consultations—she’s always by my side. Not for glory, not out of obligation, but out of love.
I was educated at home and later learned English, German, Italian, and French. I work as a translator online. Sometimes, I’m invited to seminars, where mum always accompanies me. We are inseparable. She’s not just a mother; she’s my universe.
Yes, I’m in pain. Yes, every movement is a challenge. No, I won’t have children. I won’t marry. I won’t play Chopin. I won’t become a doctor like I once dreamed. But I live because my mum does.
We never talk about the future. It’s our unspoken pact. I know she will leave someday. That’s how life is. And I know my cousin, Olivia, is meant to care for me—mum arranged and prepared everything—documents, will, property. I found out by accident. But I didn’t mention it. Because if I had, I’d have to tell the truth. And the truth is, 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 arrive with her last breath. Then, I’ll make my choice. There are many dignified ways to leave—without pity, without screams, without drama.
But while mum is here, I’ll live. For her. For her smile. To ensure that every morning, she knows: I’m still here. That is the whole purpose.
