**Diary Entry**
Sometimes I feel like I’m not living my own life but someone else’s. As if my happiness is perpetually postponed because of one grown woman who refuses to grow up—my mother. She’s sixty, yet she carries on like a teenager, flitting through life without making a single solid decision. And me? I’m stretched thin. Between her, my children, my husband, the house, my job. All of it on my shoulders alone.
Mum had me right after secondary school in Manchester. Back then, she thought love was all anyone needed to be happy. Dad adored her, shielded her from everything—worked, brought home the money, solved every problem. Mum never held a job. She barely managed the house; Nan took care of that. Granddad, meanwhile, turned a blind eye. They believed the less she had to deal with, the better. And so, they raised a helpless woman.
When I was eleven, Dad died suddenly—heart failure. I still remember that night: the tears, the screaming, Mum’s hysterical voice, then the years of silence that followed. We moved in with Nan and Granddad—Mum couldn’t cope. She spent days in bed, and I, just a child, had to step up. Cooking, schoolwork, staying quiet, staying out of the way.
Nan never recovered from the grief. She passed seven months later, but not before signing her flat over to me. “You’re the only sensible one we’ve got,” she’d said. Mum stayed with Granddad, who somehow carried the weight of her, the house, and his own failing health. Work, pension, doctors, bills—all on him. And Mum? Still weeping, still complaining, still drowning in self-pity. Occasionally, she’d try dating, but none of the men stuck around. Who would?
I grew up. Went to university, met Oliver. We fell in love, married, fixed up Nan’s old flat—my flat by then. We had our son first, then our daughter three years later. I juggled everything, kept it all moving, until Mum crashed back into our lives.
First, Granddad died. Then, almost at once, his sister—the one who’d helped us with the kids. Mum was alone. No home of her own—she’d refused to stay in the old house. No family left but us. Couldn’t handle the simplest things—paying bills, calling a plumber, dealing with the council. Months of unpaid rent piled up until I stepped in. I begged her to find work, anything—a receptionist, a carer—but she wouldn’t hear it. “My headaches,” she’d cry. “My blood pressure. What’s the point?”
Once, she flooded the flat below by leaving the washing machine hose loose. *I* had to sort it out. The neighbour shouted, Mum sobbed, and somehow, *I* was the one apologising.
Now she rings me four times a day. The neighbours are too loud. A bulb’s blown. She doesn’t know which cereal to buy. No shame in her voice. Meanwhile, I’m exhausted—work, the kids, Oliver needing time too. But I can’t break. Mum’s waiting for me to fix things, like always.
I can’t rely on her, not even with the children. She’ll forget to feed them, or wander off and get lost. Her whole world’s shrouded in fog.
Sometimes I wonder—does she *want* to stay this way? Weak, dependent, playing the victim because pity’s easier than effort. And me? I’m burning out. Silent.
I can’t abandon her. She’s still my mum. But carrying her forever? I’m not strong enough. I keep hoping—one day, she’ll wake up. Realise she’s sixty. That this is her last chance to grow up.
But I fear she never will. The tantrums, the helplessness, always leaning on others. And me? I’m just tired of being the adult for two.
**Lesson learned:** Some people cling to childhood because responsibility terrifies them. And love, real love, sometimes means letting them fall before they’ll ever stand.
