My name is Nancy. I’m thirty-five, a single mom of three — ages seven, three, and a six-month-old baby. Life has never been easy, but with my mom living with us and helping with the kids, we managed. She stayed rent-free, and in return, I had support. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.
Two weeks ago, she slipped in the kitchen, and everything changed. She became almost immobile, suddenly dependent on me for every task. Overnight, our home turned into a triage center — childcare, work, cooking, bills, and now constant caregiving layered on top. The pressure became overwhelming.
When she refused to even discuss a nursing home, I tried to find a compromise. I asked if she could help financially so I could afford part-time care and keep my job. It wasn’t about punishment — it was about survival. But the conversation exploded. She shouted, “I’m your mother — you owe me!” and the words cut deeply.
That night, my seven-year-old yelled down the stairs that Grandma was “going somewhere.” I ran up and found a nursing home van in the driveway. My mom had called them herself. And when I looked around, half the house was empty. She had movers come earlier, taking everything that belonged to her — even the baby’s crib, because she had gifted it.
When I called her crying, she said, “This is what you get for being ungrateful. I cared for your children for years. Now that I can’t help, you want to throw me away.” Her fear of losing usefulness and independence came out as blame, but her words still hurt.
I wasn’t trying to abandon her. I simply couldn’t be a full-time nurse, full-time mother, and full-time provider. Something had to give. Now the house feels quiet, the kids ask for Grandma, and I don’t know how to answer.
I keep wondering: Was I wrong to ask for help, or was she wrong to turn love into a debt? Maybe neither of us meant harm. Maybe we were both just overwhelmed — two exhausted women on opposite sides of the same fear.