“I decided to put my mother in a care home—and I have my reasons”: No one understands me
I’m trapped in an impossible situation, one with no “respectable” way out, no matter how I look at it. I’m forty years old, and I refuse to care for my sick mother. Not because I’m lazy. Not because I’m heartless. But because I have reasons I won’t justify to every judgmental relative. Yet now, it’s family turning the screws on me, pressuring me with triple the force.
**My mother wanted to be rid of me from the start.**
She’s eighty now, and I was her late, unwanted child. She had my older sister with her first husband at twenty-two. After the divorce came the chaos: binge drinking, randoms in and out, all-night raves. My sister grew up like a weed—neighbours often took her in while Mum lay passed out on the floor.
By the time she was forty, she was pregnant again—with me. She admitted later that it was too late for an abortion. She also told me about the “home remedies” she tried to get rid of me. And every time we argued, she’d throw the same line in my face:
*I should’ve flushed you out when I had the chance.*
I was her shame, her mistake. A girl nobody wanted, fathered by some stranger—Mum was sleeping around, and I was just lucky to be born. My sixteen-year-old sister raised me. Not because she wanted to, but because someone had to.
**Our home wasn’t a family—it was a war zone.**
My childhood was the stench of alcohol, screaming matches, fists flying, and tears. Men came and went, all of them drunk, one even tried to grab me when I was ten. I tore free and spent the night on a bench outside. Thank God it was summer. I told Mum—he never came back. But nothing else changed.
When my sister turned twenty-five, she bolted for Manchester, cutting all ties. I don’t blame her. She was more a mother to me than Mum ever was—feeding me, washing me, dragging me to nursery. But I think she hated me, too, for forcing her to live a life she never chose.
**Teenage rebellion and an empty house.**
By fifteen, I was barely home. Crashing with mates, sneaking off with boys. Mum was a ghost in the same flat—sometimes hitting me, usually drunk, sometimes hurling insults, mostly ignoring me.
After school, I got into a college with a dorm. Mum was *relieved* when I left. No birthday calls, no holiday visits—not that I cared. We barely spoke for years.
**Now she’s in my home—and I won’t live with her.**
I’m not married, no kids. Tried it once—didn’t work out. Now there’s a bloke, but I’m not rushing down the aisle again. I like my quiet. My peace.
Three months ago, Mum had a stroke. Relatives dumped her in hospital and rang me. I didn’t go—just sent money for meds. No fear, no guilt. Nothing.
After discharge, they brought her *here*. Said, *You’re her daughter—who else will take her?* They expected me to crumble at the sight of her. But all I saw was the woman who destroyed my childhood.
I said it straight: I’m signing her into a care home. I won’t live with her. I won’t nurse her. She didn’t raise me. She didn’t love me. Why should I sacrifice myself now?
Mum can barely speak after the stroke, but the curses come out crystal clear.
**Relatives are horrified—but none will take her.**
Now my aunt rings daily—begging, threatening, hissing about *God’s punishment*. Says I’ll never have kids. I told her: *Take her yourself.* She snapped, *I’ve got a one-bed flat—where would she sleep?*
Another distant cousin screamed down the phone, called me a monster, said she wished Mum *had* killed me back then. All bark, no bite. None of them will lift a finger. They just expect *me* to do it. Because I’m the daughter. Because that’s how it’s *supposed* to be.
But I don’t love her. I don’t owe her.
I’ll pay for her care. I’ll send food, meds. But I won’t give warmth to someone who burned every bridge. If anyone wants to judge me—let them try living with a mother who called them a mistake.
P.S. Being a mother isn’t just giving birth. It’s raising, holding, protecting. She did none of that. Now she demands love. But there’s none left to give.
