Between Duty and Freedom: My Life With Mom
“Rachel, please—don’t leave me alone tonight,” Mom’s voice quivered from the living room. The clock on my phone glowed 8:43 PM, and my Uber was two minutes away. My chest tightened. I stared at the black dress hanging on my closet door, the one I’d bought for Emily’s engagement party months ago, back when life was still mine.
“Mom, it’s just a few hours,” I called back, forcing my voice to sound light. “Emily’s waited her whole life for this. I’ll be back before midnight. Sarah is just a call away if you need anything.”
I heard the click of her cane, dreaded and familiar, as she shuffled closer. “Rachel, honey, please. I don’t feel right. What if something happens?”
My fingers trembled as I texted Emily: “I’m sorry. Can’t make it. Mom’s not well.”
That was the moment I realized—I wasn’t living my life anymore. I was living hers.
Two years earlier, I had been just another twenty-six-year-old in Kansas City, pushing papers at a marketing firm, dreaming about moving to Chicago, falling in and out of love, and buying overpriced coffee. Then Mom’s diagnosis—early-onset Parkinson’s—blew through like a tornado, scattering all my plans. Dad had been gone for years; my older brother, Ben, had a wife, two kids, and a mortgage in Dallas. “I can’t just up and leave everyone,” he said when I called. “But I’ll help with money, Rach.”
Money wasn’t what Mom needed. She needed help eating, showering, remembering her pills. She needed someone to listen when the tremors made her angry or the loneliness made her cry. She needed me.
At first, I was determined to be the perfect daughter. I quit my job, moved back into my childhood bedroom, and told myself it was temporary. I bathed her, cooked for her, even learned to braid her thinning hair because it made her feel pretty. I joined a Facebook group for young caregivers and was shocked by how many people were like me—stuck, scared, and suffocating under the weight of love and duty.
But as months passed, resentment gnawed at my insides. My friends stopped inviting me out. My boss stopped replying to my emails. Ben called once a week, always from his car, always with updates about Little League and PTA meetings. His life moved forward. Mine stood still.
One night, I snapped. Mom accidentally knocked over her water glass, soaking the new book I’d finally found time to read. She burst into tears. I lost it.
“I can’t do this anymore!” I yelled, instantly regretting it. “I gave up everything! My job, my friends—my life!”
She looked so small and scared, clutching her knees on the couch. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I never wanted this for you.”
Silence hung between us, thick and painful. I wanted to apologize, to tell her it wasn’t her fault. But all I could do was cry.
The next day, Ben called. I told him everything. “You have to come home,” I pleaded. “Just for a weekend. I need a break.”
He sighed. “I’ll try, Rach. But you know how it is. Megan’s mom is sick too. And the kids—”
“Forget it,” I said, hanging up.
I started having panic attacks—sweating, shaking, heart pounding so hard I thought I was dying. I told my doctor, who prescribed medication and recommended therapy. I didn’t have time for therapy. I barely had time to shower.
One afternoon, I caught Mom watching old home videos. She was laughing, her voice strong and clear, holding a toddler version of me on her hip. For a moment, I hated that woman on the screen. She wasn’t the burden I now cared for. She was vibrant, fearless, unstoppable. I missed her so much it ached.
Our days blurred together. Pills, doctors, physical therapy. The house shrank around me, suffocating. I started resenting the pitying looks from neighbors, the way people whispered in the grocery store, “That poor girl, giving up her life for her mother.”
One night, Ben finally showed up. He looked tired, older. We argued in whispers behind closed doors.
“You have to do more, Ben. I can’t keep doing this alone.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rach. But what are we supposed to do? Put her in a home? You know she’d never forgive us.”
We both stared at the faded wallpaper, neither of us brave enough to say what we were thinking: maybe it was time.
That conversation haunted me. I researched care facilities, guilt twisting my stomach. Every website I visited felt like betrayal. But something had to give.
The day I brought up the idea to Mom, I could barely get the words out.
“Mom,” I said, voice shaking, “have you ever thought about assisted living? Somewhere with nurses and activities—people your age?”
She went quiet, eyes filling with tears. “You want to send me away?”
“No, Mom, it’s not like that. I just—I can’t do this alone anymore. I’m drowning.”
She touched my hand, hers trembling. “I know, honey. I don’t want to be your whole world. I want you to live.”
It took months, but we found a place she liked. She made friends, started painting again. I visited every weekend, guilt still gnawing at me, but slowly, I breathed again. I found a new job, reconnected with friends, started therapy. My life, though different, was mine again.
Still, every night before bed, I wonder: Did I do the right thing? Is choosing my own life over endless sacrifice selfish—or is it okay to want more? I don’t know the answer, but I hope I’m not alone in asking.