I Took My Elderly Mother In.

— Now I Regret It, but I Can’t Send Her Back. And the Shame in Front of Others Is Crushing Me

Today, I need to get this off my chest. There’s a pain inside me, heavy as concrete, that I need to put into words. Maybe by writing, I’ll find some relief. Or perhaps, a way out.

Three months ago, I made the difficult decision to bring my mother to live with me. She had just turned 80 and was living alone in a remote village in Soria, in a house with a roof on the verge of collapse. Her strength was fading: trembling legs, weak hands, failing memory. I couldn’t stand seeing her waste away alone, and I thought bringing her to my apartment in Valladolid was the right thing to do — a loving act, the kind a daughter should make.

At first, everything seemed peaceful. I carefully prepared a room for her: a comfortable bed, a warm blanket, a small TV. I watched her diet closely — no fats, low salt, steamed vegetables. I paid for her expensive medications out of my own salary since her pension barely covered the basics. I felt like I was doing my part.

But what seemed like an act of love soon became an unbearable burden.

As the weeks went by, my mother started complaining about everything. The city was “gray and soulless.” The food was “bland.” Life here was a “prison.” Small things — like forgotten tea or dust on a shelf — sparked criticism and arguments. Worse, she began manipulating me with dramatic sighs, silent treatments, and bitter comments about how she was better off in her village.

My emotional health collapsed. I started taking anxiety meds just to get through the day. After work, I would stop outside my building, unable to gather the strength to go up. What once was my home had become a battlefield — a space where love turned into guilt, and caregiving became torture.

I thought about sending her back. But how? The house is in ruins. There’s no heat, no safety. And how would I face people? I can already imagine the judgmental looks, the whispers: “The daughter who abandoned her own mother.” The weight of that judgment paralyzes me.

I feel like I’m losing myself.

Today, I’m writing in search of help. I truly don’t know what to do anymore. How does one live with a difficult elderly parent who drains your energy, who wounds you with words, who seems to thrive on guilt? How do you love without erasing yourself? How do you care for someone without destroying yourself in the process?

I ask, humbly, if anyone has lived through something similar — please share your experience. I need a light in this dark tunnel. I need to know I’m not alone. And most of all, I need to breathe again in my own home.

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