I can’t take it anymore. Where can I send my elderly mother?
I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. At first, I thought I could manage. That it was just a difficult phase, that love and patience would see me through. But now I’m standing on the edge—emotionally, physically, morally. Some might judge me for saying this. Others might understand because they’ve been there. I want to tell my story—not to justify myself, but simply to let it out.
My name is Emily, and I’m the youngest in the family. My older brother, Daniel, is three years my senior. Mum had us later in life—Daniel when she was forty-two, me at forty-five. My parents struggled to have children, so when we finally arrived, Mum saw us as miracles. We were her whole world. And despite the age gap between her and other mothers, she gave us everything—love, warmth, a good education.
When I was seventeen, Dad passed away. For Daniel and me, it was devastating, but for Mum, it was the end of everything. She barely recovered, and I did my best to support her. Daniel left to study, then moved to the States—built a career, started a family. It was just Mum and me.
Years passed. Now, Mum is seventy-eight. And I’m still here. Only she isn’t just my mother anymore. She’s someone who needs constant care. Round-the-clock. And I’m drowning.
Mum forgets the simplest things. Leaves the iron on, forgets to turn off the hob, puts the teapot in the fridge and the milk in the cupboard. I’ve told her a hundred times not to help—I’ll handle it. But she keeps trying—out of kindness, habit, wanting to be useful. Only now, it’s more hindrance than help. And I can’t bring myself to say, *”Mum, stop,”* because I see the pain in her eyes when she realises she’s helpless.
Then came the worst of it. Mum went out and didn’t come back. She forgot where she was going. Forgot where she lived. We searched for over three hours. I called everyone, combed the neighbourhood, nearly lost my mind. Then a friend spotted her on the other side of town and rang me. Mum was confused, freezing, terrified. And I—exhausted, broken, empty.
This isn’t a one-off. It’s normal now. The constant tension. The never-ending fear that something will go wrong. The relentless responsibility. I can’t relax for a second. I wake up at every sound at night. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t *live*—I survive. I’m not a daughter anymore—I’m a carer. And it’s slowly crushing me.
And I have my own family. A husband, children, grandchildren. I loved them, lived for them. But now, Mum is all on me. And I’m losing strength. I’m tired. Burnt out. I cry at night because I don’t know what to do.
I can’t even say it out loud: *”Where can I send Mum?”* The word *”send”* feels like betrayal. Like I’m not her daughter, just a stranger. But there *are* care homes. Nursing homes. Special facilities. Why can’t I even *consider* it without guilt?
Because that’s how we were raised. Because a mother is sacred. Because she brought me into this world, raised me, protected me. And now it’s my duty to be there. But duty shouldn’t be a life sentence. It shouldn’t be shackles. And yet, I feel like I’ve got a rock around my neck and someone’s saying, *”Carry it until you collapse.”*
Daniel sends money, calls, sympathises. But he’s an ocean away. He doesn’t see Mum crying at night, getting lost in the kitchen, mixing up my name with Nana’s. He doesn’t run through the streets in panic when she doesn’t come back from the shops. He doesn’t sweep up the plates she’s dropped. He lives in peace. And me? I’m stuck here. In this house. In this endless loop.
I don’t know what to do. I just want to breathe. Wake up without dread. Visit my daughter without fearing Mum will burn the flat down while I’m gone. I’m not asking for much. Just a little life. A little quiet. A little of *me* back.
Maybe someone will judge me. Say I’m a terrible daughter. That I should carry Mum in my arms till the very end. But let them live like this first—a year, two, five. Then tell me what it’s like to be alive but never allowed to rest.
I don’t want to abandon her. I want her to be well. Cared for. Safe. I want to love her, not fear her. But right now—I just *can’t*. And if there’s a place where she’ll be better looked after, where she’ll be watched over—maybe I should think about it?
I don’t know. I really don’t. But I can’t keep going like this.
