I live with my elderly mother, and every day I ask myself: what kind of life is this? I live as best I can and find joy when others are doing well.
How does one keep from breaking under the weight of caring for an aging parent? The heroine of our story is Margaret, a lonely retiree from a quiet town near Bristol, who battles solitude and melancholy each day yet clings to the light and hope within her heart. This isn’t just a tale—it’s a piercing story of love, resilience, and the quiet strength to find happiness in simple things, despite losses and dreams left unfulfilled.
Life hasn’t turned out the way I’d hoped. When I look back, I can’t fathom where the years have gone. Last week, I turned fifty-seven, but instead of celebration, I felt only a sharp, aching sadness. Birthdays are for taking stock, and my tally is bitter. I am alone. No friends, no close family—just Mum. We live together in a small flat on the outskirts of Bristol, clinging to each other like two lone trees after a storm.
Mum is eighty-two. She still soldiers on—manages the stairs, though every step costs her dearly. But time spares no one, and the thought of her one day being gone tightens my chest with icy fingers. What will I do without her? She’s my only companion, my purpose, my anchor. Without her, I’d be adrift, cut loose from the world entirely.
Sometimes I think back to my youth, and tears well up. There were dreams, plans, hopes… but life scattered them like leaves in the wind. My husband left years ago; we never had children. Friends I once held dear drifted into their own lives and families. Now it’s just Mum and me. But I refuse to drown in self-pity. I live for her—for her smile, for the quiet lilt of her voice when she recounts stories of the past. And if I’m honest? It could be worse.
We have a roof over our heads. Food on the table. So many don’t even have that. In the evenings, Mum and I knit—she teaches me new patterns, though her hands tremble now. We watch old films on the telly, sip tea, and chuckle at corny jokes. These little rituals keep us afloat. On weekends, if we’re lucky, the neighbours drop by. They bring news—so-and-so’s son has gone off to work in London, someone’s niece got married. I love these chats. They’re like a window into another world, one where life hums with motion.
What’s the point in mourning what never was? I live as I can. And when I hear others’ good news—that a neighbour’s grandson got into university, or someone’s daughter landed a decent job—my heart warms. Their happiness becomes mine, if only for a moment.
Each night, I pray. Thank God that despite everything—the illnesses, the tight pockets, the loneliness—He hasn’t abandoned us. There were years when it felt impossible, but we endured. And I believe there’s a reason for that. Faith gives me the strength to rise each morning, to brew Mum’s tea, to listen to her stories, and to find joy in the small things.
I’m no hero. Just a woman doing her best to keep warmth in our tiny world. Mum is my lighthouse, my reason not to give up. As long as she’s here, I’ll hold on. Life didn’t turn out as I dreamed in my youth—but it has meaning. And that meaning is the love Mum and I share, every single day.
